michael. (goodplace) wrote in incompletedata, @ 2017-11-05 11:05:00 |
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How delightful to see you wearing your own face, and amongst the washed and bejeweled, no less - for so long I've lamented that to have a glimpse of you, to share a word or pass a smile, I seem always to be obliged to slink into an alley or climb into a cave and seek out the foulest-looking pile of rags to shake you out of it. You ought to shave more often: it makes you easier to find. You ought to mingle more frequently with high society: it suits you.
Your grasp of the implications of the quarternions remains unsteady, but I confess it warms my heart to hear you speak of them. In my age I have perhaps developed too easy a sense of affection.
Do promise you won't disappear again into the - well, into wherever it is you disappear when you go away from me. (Do you exist, then? All of science says you do. I retain my doubts. Arithmetic, geometry, all these shabby mausoleums are crumbling. Who's to say there's a world at all? But, no; when I shut my eyes, you're there. That's a proof I'll happily rest my head on.)
Come for tea.
You most obedient servant, sir,
M.