On the tree, on the branch, the nest tries to unravel itself; its twigs intertwined, a construct of things and places and events. Only a bird would find this bit of straw so useful. Only a bird, I say. The nest, still intact, falls to the ground. The hatchlings have flown away. It is no longer a nest.
Another day comes. An unendlessness for the living. Three billion heartbeats, wasting away. I count and re-count them, then factor them into solar days: the least common denominator. We all must sleep. And then, another day.
In the theatre, in the orchestra pit, I write the proof; the logic is flawless. It is flat, all the way to the curvature of the horizon. n = ab. It is circular and perfect, except for the assumptions. They are hanging lifelessly from a rope, from the rafters. I strike them with a rod and they collapse, phantoms in a French opera. They break into three billion tiny beetles and scurry away. The variables tumble to the floor but the equal sign hangs in the air, glowing and gold. The proof is gone, but the equal sign remains.
How can I deny existence of a God when this equal sign is glowing? I must pull these pieces together; there will be gaps, there will be holes, but we can still recognize it, we can still hold onto it. It is not gone. It is my proof. It still exists, and existence is essential. It is the part that remains that matters, I am convinced. The n is dented but still recognizable. I sweep up the beetles, writhing on the floorboards. I pull back the red velvet curtain from her face; two long pigtails with golden braided ropes. The equal sign is where her eyes should be. I must fix it. Everything should be where it should be.
I am missing some of my heartbeats. They rolled along the floor and bounced down the stairs and fell into the gutter. Kneeling on the concrete, I peer through the slotted grate, watching them disappear in the current of sewage. I sit up, imagining them pouring from some outfall, into a basin or ditch. They turn into pearls and are swallowed by frogs. That, as they say, is the end of that.
Alongside the gutter, alongside the curb, lies a castaway mesh of twigs and grass. I think: it used to be something. But what was it? It used to be pieces and then it was something and now it isn't. Now, I should say, it is something else. An ant figure skates along it, tracing a celtic knot. I spy a bit of straw, put it in my pocket. Only a bird, I say.
And I recalculate.
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