We're still bothered by our births. So, science.
Leaving college English classes horrified at answerlessness.
Calculate me.
Here's some simple answer on a once clean page.
Blank slate, painted with the codes of all
life, thought; numbers.
Before sleeping, once more a wound appears with a roar,
the sort of roar of the wings of an ant:
bright particles shoot through a double slit
and our comfort is misunderstood as the pattern
on the wall behind in front of us.