Pascal’s wager is a cruel optimism, declared the cynical Marxist, chewing dynamite & clover. God is for fish. Hope is for the unlovable custodian of the castle of dreamless regulation. So grinds the mode of production, an old lawnmower with a loose tooth and a taste for Scotch. To believe in anything is pie-faced, like mild weather. A torrent that breaks over the smallest talk with its kneecaps & mortgages. Children believe in that which they can imagine. Ontology is for pagans. The economic housedress in the ocean’s thighs. A stick to draw four squares, each of them belong to house a fairy. Baking philosophy in the oven of Hell. So goes the prohibition of emotional semiotics. The soul is a fleck of lint in the navel of a sailor, who wanders across the perimeter of time. There’s a fifty percent chance that I believe in him. As if one could be moved by an equation. The possibility of friendship is just such a problem.