Rooting through three-dimensional, or rather, metric space, the rapidly exploring random tree (RRT) iteratively, (arguably artfully) draws targeted routes t...


Tinker of things and thoughts, a thingsea of thinks and thinksea of things, entity conches and slippery concepts, Eve’s tired thought cycles sank idly into a...


When it isn’t exactly clear what it means to begin at the beginning, often a little self-conscious meta-pondering provides a useful segue into the material.


Tinker of things and thoughts, a thingsea of thinks and thinksea of things, entity conches and slippery concepts, Eve’s tired thought cycles sank idly into an aimless bob as she too sank, in poor chiropractic form, into her chair.

Why her mind waxed maritime remained to be seen – one, sunk into one’s musings, is allowed lack of self-awareness – but gradually the mind meandered from pelagic nowheres to the house it had so often taken shelter in, that littoral cliffside by the sea (the latter phrase in reference to Annabel Lee, not in prolixity’s unwitting, overweening preference for tautology).

Still in the offing hadal stars and abyssal diatoms slept, for further perusal by our heroine, but for now, she shook off the flotsam of her dip, and suddenly at the cliff’s edge, atop the terrifyingly pocked, baldly grassy siltstone, and suddenly by the house’s wan, mottled stucco, and finally at the perduringly green threshold to her father’s house, she managed to step in.

In the mind especially floorboards creak.

There is an uninspired, practical kitchen. All the fun it has is making bare feet miserable in the winter, when nobody is there anyway. So out of deference to the insipid thing, we excuse it from a larger role in this reverie.

To the right, the favorite door, the thick distilled color of good taste and decent funds, stands open far enough for little Eve, aged three in what we now know to be a memory, to step in.

In fact, the door matches the bergamot-scent of the room. The purple carpet, dream of naked feet, awaits buxom beneath. The door is the color of Earl Grey steeped too long, with the brew’s translucent quality in the lovingly layered lacquer.

Cryptic kabbalah, detailing subconscious terrae incognitae, books on magic or mathematics or both are arranged predictably around dad’s desk. A miraculously large window affords a grey view of the water beyond and below.

Eve turns from the window and only just manages to scale the (to her still vast) mesa of oak. She espies a cup.

Steam ensconcing it and transfixing it through its central starry cavity, a wheel of lemon epicycles about. The tea bag anchored to father’s thumb, or perhaps vice versa, broods undisturbed below.

“Would you like some?” Perhaps he was mustachioed or moustached, or clean-shaven – in fact it was likeliest the latter, but at this point, Mnemosyne’s thread unravels and Eve is back in her urban eyrie.

Sun setting over the Pacific ocean

Softly lit – for Eve hates light a shade brighter than crepuscular, a hue other than golden – the apartment is thoughtfully decorated. It is, in fact, a masterpiece of theory, and thrilling meditation on interior design – entirely unremarkable in its execution.

We don’t really care to look like furniture-store setpieces, anyway. So although the oatmeal of the couch matches the off-white of the walls perfectly, the textures are just different enough to make them clash, and everyone who visits has their eyes bounce unconvinced between the wall and sterile sponge of a sofa and troublingly abstract painting on the wall.

(“It’s a meditation on depth in flatness,” Eve says.)