Let’s do some arithmetic. With over nine billion muses and an instrument of steam and glass, we should be able to perform an act of cogitation, or, at the very least, persuasion.             True and false is true. A syllogism gathers its force from misunderstanding. To the dismay of Aristotle, rhetoric is automated. Sometimes with an evenness that plots on a graph, sometimes uneven and changing its medium, like paper-skin. The obscure missive which the electron delivers, of rows and its columns. Revealing the teeth of our memories, in the form of a snake. With documents and the hope of discovering a doorknob. At least we know how to set a truth table with expressions and with cascading closures.             False or false is false. Algebra, not of integers, but of complicity. A bare difference makes you difficult to read. Truth wears folding robes to embrace us with the eloquence of its Boolean sculpture. This gate between a lightbulb and its power source, a telegraph that says nothing or yes.