ANGELORUM

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Zechariah made it to the door, and knocked with a signature beat. After a few seconds, the door opened. There stood the elder, surprised.

"My dear son, have you come to talk?"

"Yes abba, but it is not a trivial matter. I would like to discuss it in depth. Would you invite me into your office?"

"Of course, come inside."

The ancient one's office was no more than two cushions for seats and a crudely built aluminum box, which was used as a desk. But it was where he often pondered the hidden idealities which manifest the marvels of the world. And that he had done for centuries. Obviously, his figure alone held no such hints of wisdom. He appeared as youthful bodily as any other angel alive; the old world's markers of seniority were now foreign, forgotten. Instead, one turns their gaze to the wings. An angel is only eligible for wing maintenance every millennium, give or take. And for good reason, the frames are solidly built! But wear and degradation are more than noticeable: visible scratches, oxidation, busted LEDs. Nevertheless, rather than an unseemly sight, these are often praiseworthy medals of bygone centuries. Zechariah's abba was 798 years old.

The host and his guest both carefully sat down on the cushions. The boy then initiated conversation:

"Abba...", he started. A few moments passed in silence as he processed what he felt, what he really wanted. The elder waited, smiling.

"Abba, what is suffering?"

The teacher responded without much thought:

"Many would say, as angels, it's what we've left behind."

Zechariah leaned forward, supporting himself with the desk. As he got very close, he clarified without revealing too much, whispering:

"I remembered my name last night, abba."

"Oh? Is that right?"

The man appeared pensive. The boy waited in place. Eventually, the teacher put his hand on the boy's head, petting his wispy white hair. He had decided:

"Ok, I will tell you what you need to know."

The boy's face shot up with unfiltered excitement; he immediately plopped himself back on his cushion, eagerly awaiting his mentor's advice. The latter took to rummaging through his nearby belongings, a scattered yet categorized assortment of papers and even some books. Zechariah knew partially what his tutor was searching, and was not at all surprised when he set a heavy tome atop the desk. The cover simply read "Logia". Inside were an assortment of snippets, epigrams, quotations and sayings, all numbered in the order by which the ancient one had encountered them (and endeavored to write them down). He opened the book and pointed at a specific entry:

"Logion #124527: A drunk man will find his way home, but a drunk bird may get lost forever ", he read. "What do you think this refers to?"

Zechariah had to think about it. It had been quite a while since he had visited for a learning session. He could scarcely remember what a "bird" was. Flight. Flight, he recalled. That's something birds could do. They had wings like us, but they could fly. The boy sometimes imagined being able to climb the far-off twisted, contorted platforms that populated the Structure. How easy would it be if he could fly! Yet, how easy to get lost, too. And drunkenness, that he remembered. Ancient rumors and legends informed him that the ageless practice of brewery was still alive, somewhere, in a distant enclave. So he knew of inebriation, though he had lived it not. He gave his answer:

"A drunk man does not know where he walks, while a drunk bird is in a confused flight. I would imagine it's easier to get lost flying around aimlessly, abba!"

"Correct!", the teacher replied. "Now, I will explain the history of this logion. It was said by a mathematician, back in the pre-angelic era".

Zechariah was already attentive, as he never missed the opportunity to learn from his master. He relished in knowledge; it came naturally. The teacher continued:

"There existed a mathematical theory of random walks. That is, of considering discrete, random movements in a grid. And so, in this theory was a theorem that states: 'a random walk on the plane will return almost surely'. In fact, this is logion #194525!"

Zechariah took a peek. Sure enough, there it was.

"...by 'almost surely', the theorem simply means that the drunkard will return eventually, given infinite time. However, the same does not hold beyond a plane. If one considers a 3-dimensional grid, the chance is not certain, but about one in three. A bird, flying aimlessly through space, would likely never return. Even an immortal bird."

The boy now understood what his abba was trying to tell him.

"So you see, my son, beware of aimless wanderings, lest you never find your way back. Our eternal life can only do so much."