on a number greater than infinity

darling, you're making me blush

To love someone is to read their inscribed infinitude. The text only refers to itself, an act of infinite recursion. Darling, will you show me your texts? Darling, your infinity is greater than my infinity. Your infinity makes mine blush when the two are compared. The non-finite number of potential meanings brought into existence by a “wyd” text extinguishes any rational thought. Infinity extinguishes reason. Through criticism we find the essential weapons of love. Today, I ponder the limit of infinity and lay conceptual siege to its totalitarian restraint.

I hold no secrets, though it’s irrelevant because no one is interested. I pick a few flowers with a certain lover in mind, and for what? He will never approach the ample love of infinity, and infinity won’t respond to my calls. My text has reverted to its dialectical totality of meaning in the act of being read. Looking towards the future, I shrug in the face its infinite seclusion. I wander through this world unaware of your presence.

Love transforms the desired other into a fragment of the infinite love that structures our celestial order. Infinite recursion renders infinity nonsensical, draining its determinate qualities. I collect my flowers and decide to attend confession, assembling the collective memory of history’s infinite suffering. Pure communication reveals itself to us through active contemplation of absolute infinity. Keep your soul open to the transitive animation of divine frenzy.

Art’s importance derives from its resonance with the sacred numerology. That is, the numerical ontology of our finite world as it is actualized through God’s mind. Real idiots ignore Plato’s Timaeus. Too much good stuff in there, you shouldn’t pass it up. Only through infinity can we soft-block reason.

A few entertaining notes on infinity are contained within the following paragraph. Have they made an NFT of infinity yet? Have they made a conceptual sculptural composition of infinity? Has Allan Kubrow staged a radical act of performance art dedicated to infinity’s sublime power? All of the world’s premier idiots, lacking any prior knowledge of sublimity and devotion, assemble themselves in a network of idiotic ideation. Have they made a French New Wave film about infinity yet? Did they write about it in Les Cahiers du Cinema? Hence, criticism and love enter into an enchanted dance, the conclusion of which was determined before you even opened the first page. I hope it was great, and also beautiful. Though not more beautiful than the text of us.

Infinity lies outside of our collective imaginary precisely because it defies the logos of quantification and, by proxy, the entire fortress of Western metaphysics. We assault this metaphysics and plan our next assault on infinity. After the battle has concluded, there only remains the text of us.

I mark the page where your body once stood, endeavoring to regain a lost feeling of comfort which had left the room when I gave up on reading you. I mark the page so your absence can be made comprehensible. I mark the page so your absence can be digested. I mark the page so that we know there is nothing outside the text of us. I mark the page that contains the prayer I must now recite for penance.

The magnitude of my dishonesty, the principal victim of which has been myself, makes itself known in the spaces between words. I mark the page when silence overcompensates. We lie to ourselves so that we may continue reading.