Perhaps, after all, it is a path only for me; I look into its depths: one of the six classes, by the canon, a square array, eight by eight, numbers from one to sixty-four, a pattern that unfolds, each number fragmenting, falling into pieces, into bits, into its bits. These bits, along with other previously invisible, even nonexistent bits, arrange themselves, and suddenly it becomes the adamantine structure of space, my space, our space; meanings starting to condense out of what was previously numbers, mere numbers, bringing an infinitude to my wonder, my joy, tugging at me, calling me onwards; each changing point of view bringing a focus to further patterns: patterns of space, of time, and I think perhaps, of our material existence. First came a meaningless pattern; meaningless but in some mysterious way, to me it was beautiful. I took it apart, put it back together, rearranged it, and it became the whole world; and how strange, I think, that afterward it left the world just as it was before; just as before, and

yet so much richer. Thus have I looked upon the world in microcosmic form, and though the desire to explain, to teach, to show others what I have seen, discovered, contemplated has been strong upon me, I have yet to find the words; though I have searched for, and endeavored to create the words, I have come to fear my time too short. If I were to die now, today, having alone lived these moments, would it be worth it, knowing that I alone have captured this one brief lightning flash of immortality?