I am not mathmatic; and while i understand its great depths of subtle magnus i keep my distance out of intimidation. Thusly, writing is my forte, an art of bullshitting critiqued by bullshitters efforting to be bullshat. the wondering mind is at home in this frontier, fenced in alone by the bullshitters ability to indulge hyperbole of emotions. math is cold in the sense that it is unforviging, confrontational, direct. Literature is cold in teh sense that it will look you through the eye, into ones soul, tell a minor fib so as to feel the reader out, then exploit found weaknesses. both have the capacity to frolic our universe for revelation, but only one will tell you what you want to hear.
my lover is a lover by circumstance, of circumstance.