The dram of hope he kept hidden in his eyes. See the child gangly with adolescence, see him abutt adulthood, see him covered in the insects of his past. Each action , each gesticulation, each sentence, nictitation, exhalation is drenched in anxiety. When HE left for good, it was good that left in another direction. The walls, borders, limits that the young man had within himself and between the world came down in a cataclysmic collapse. The result is that he is now punctuating his equilibrium, so to speak. The result is that he now is awake to his mortality. He begins punching and kicking, like a babe in the womb, in his case his "womb" is the wake of the unseen object, his lawlessness, his desire for destruction of even more of his existence. And, he wept at his travails.
And his trials multiplied; and with their multiplication came a solution to his problem: 1 plus o=0. Zero is the mystical answer. The real answer. At zero, he added himself to others, notably women, thus his problem became one plus one = two. Only, he became obsessed with erasing the problem, and himself, and then returning to it, ad absurdum. One day, he became -1 to the 100th power multiplied by zero, added to one, erased again. Another day, after the first one, he said , "Fuck math."
