Letter to —

You have asked me to explain the relationship between the Wichita language of Oklahoma (of which there is only one remaining fluent speaker) and the hallucinogenia described in M. Megrovian’s fourth volume of Elixirs, Philters, and Philanderers.

Firstly, they are both evocative of warm ultraviolet liquid light flowing, forming, unfurling, purling, curling, but that’s sort of self-evident.

Well, think of it as the emotional thread between an 8-year-old’s mathematics class in Bangalore in 1881, and an ancient Greek mathematician, a connection that labels and classifies all instantiations of a particular process of multiplication.

To illustrate, consider an abstract phase space in which an eternal return applies. In order for the prime numbers to complete a cycle of saṃsāra, the primes need to remember all previous and future possible/plausible/probable cycles of saṃsāra. Essentially, every prime numbered pixel must disintegrate, which, if taken to its logical conclusion by a prodigious mind sufficiently versed in cosmic illusion (māyā) and the diffeomorphisms of dandelion stalks, should effectively prove the Riemann hypothesis.

If this seems a bit abstruse, take as an analogy the example of an hourglass cached in a vat of honey in a labyrinth at the bottom of an astronomical observatory, which can only be accessed when the current constellations have shifted beyond recognizability, and then only via an odd mechanical contraption that emits pipe organ tones, which are actually a sort of sonal code indicating the directions. This is a method of location that is unfailingly direct. Likewise, if I were to say to you such as “alveolar lateral approximant, open-mid back unrounded vowel, voiced labiodental fricative” or perhaps “glottal stop, close-mid front unrounded vowel, voiceless palato-alveolar sibilant, voiceless uvular stop” if Persian is psychologically closer to you, this is also the most direct possible mode of conveyance.

We must either invent the topological machinery to cleave one universe to another, or remain stranded here for 10^25 eons, in which case I fear that we would both opt for a form of animated suspension, becoming as effigies to one another. And in that sleep of chemically induced hibernation, what dreams may come? I have long considered both dreams and time as mediums for our art, suitable to be molded and shaped according to our aesthetic preferences. It is pure speculation, but I believe that if we pass through the oneirocene — you and I, silent and unaware — that our dreamstuff may take the form of sempemphemeralia (one of my coinages, meaning “eternal ephemeral paraphernalia”- anyone who possesses a sufficiently vital imagination to craft a memory menagerie knows about this), but also possibly of something entirely different, something fluid and windy and aerodynamically unstable like glyphs or runes or auroras rippling through crystals or your voice singing to me in Tamil as I stare up at a green sky.

My reasons for telling you this are pragmatic. I’m not trying to burden you or to fantasize mindlessly about a mythic golden age in a time before potatoes. I just want to know how you feel.

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