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I wanted to think of what could not be thought except in intersections; I wanted to satiate my fiendishness in a neutering gnosis. I wanted to see the first chimp paint it’s own likeness in a limbo state of gravitating iconostasis, flanked by altar candles and decked in a dark green Zuchetto upon which stars would genuflect in a prism without manacles, unrivaled by the boring, mundane phenomenon of space’s black canopy loved by the plebeians.
