The liberty of prediction

He used to feel dreadfully the

weight of foxy maths,

wolfing down his radii of

actions, every

time he tolled 

a step for

his way, at crossroads even

he couldn’t say were

what they appeared 

to be;


what they did 

seem or not,

or scream or

shut down and up, and into such trial

of misunderstanding quite

hailed and quite 

railed; and

what led him curiously to

ream off so often, time after 

tome, words of 

precision so heavy as


his, and

certain debate, and hard

[occurrence {too]

late} to mate with a beloved

any soul out there,

was this certain 

uncertainty which

uncertained his seeing: that 

to do what was expected

was losing his being.

But now all has changed: equally

curiously it has: no worry 

does he have 


what he must do,

nor what he mustn’t,

nor what he can’t,

nor how or why

this has to why.

For he’s suddenly, astonish-

[s]ingly, discovered




(like no other he’s ever ever 


You don’t have to be


to be free …

And so it is true, and so he is

able to simultaneously

now be 

and enjoy what he can

with the people his mind

once banned him 

from seeing: the 

people who will most make him







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