Try making a man with no soul, you who can do all things. Not quite all. Is it you or your end that’s manifest in forms fixed before you, or in the first sums the schoolchild learns, likewise unalterable. The triangle makes its dark refusal of all you might be, great indefinite. Spared a body and this staggered mind, you cannot know the joy our weariness embraces—what made you go without the saving play of memory. Yes, to forget and invent is denied you. Though you transcend time you too cannot change what was. The sad dream seizing you most of all, still you cannot feel sadness, only—who knows. Maybe you feel less and less the rumored maker, more like one who simply sees himself reflected, unforgiving, in a foreignness… Bound by such laws. A singular. You cannot make another of what you are, be less than yourself, disappear.