We’re trying to write less expressions that begin with “if.” Or (at least) by dividing such conditionals into bits, to reveal their skeletons of theory. The lighthouse turns math into light as last night’s denominator rises. Like a symbol with contingency expelling from its contrail. I am afraid of getting lost in my own thoughts as cockroaches clatter in our maze of language. “If the coerced value of a so-called universal truth resembles the nimbus of a concatenated string, and if the imperialist economy of pain and pleasure reveals the falsehoods of the body and its resilience. And if a moment occludes its intersubjective meaning and its electricity, And if the morning gets tangled in its own hair. Then you shall dispatch an action. Then the judgment of a patient animal precipitates in forgetfulness. And the beauty of the lighthouse contributes to its ruin, its gothic obsolescence.” You return from hell with a version of yourself, written in cursive and built of broken promises. This hill of circuit-breakers and privilege, where under certain conditions we play card games, and obscure the bones of the everyday and ordinary and we fashion theories of our own expectations. We look to a future with less conditionals, disjoining each possibility into its own small envelope. There is nothing wrong with such frugal correspondence, but I hear the noise of the hungry cockroaches.