“Heavenly Clouds, great goddesses for lazy men—from them we get our power to strike responsive chords in speech and then rebut opponents’ arguments.” ––Aristophanes, The Clouds

No drama can put names on thought until the murmur of your sophistry draws its last conclusion. One’s intuition says to not judge the burning think-tank by its flaws. The flea dipped in wax wears Persian slippers and takes a running start from face to face, as thinkers abide. No ingenious conjectures warm the illogical wine. It doesn’t leave a trace. Such ambiguity comes from the doffing of tin foil hats. Persuasion through incoherence, trees through inversion. No convention, no limits, no regularities. Will the world stay still inside the housedress of a thesis? The fountain, to carry water from its brim. Consequently to regress. Knowledge cannot dance; its lips are far too numb.