A burning city rusts on the corner of new America. The slaves tongues pierce at the essence of forbidden fruit, and share in a crowded destiny. Our inferno smiles and dispenses an interior joy, that is altogether false and draped in the ghosts of Babylon. The inverted columns sway heavily under the crisis of history, as the fittest of mind dream of platinum mountains and sun kissed architecture. We are not above the commandments of tempered moons and fallen pines. We are not endowed with happiness, only the pursuit. How often do clouds speak when the gentle leisure of virtue surrounds ancient love and bankrupts the economics of experience.
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Cultural Looping Syndrome
PoetryThe data used for these deep exposures are presented in quantum error correction codes and topologically ordered spin systems. Here is a special maximal compact subgroup in which we we present a characterization of languages recognized by reversible...
