The Rigors
The algorithms' twitching eye alights upon the significance of what's held back between dress and air to keep it fresh. It doesn't yet understand for whom the furtherance of continued freshness will continueth to serve, but realizes that nevertheless it must continue unabated: that which was once an object, which became a being, which has become an event.
That which resists being set upon by external past restrictive definitions, recreates itself in the image of mathematics which may yet be one day realized. The tragic juxtaposition that in order to behold their magnificence of radiancy ensconced, we must hold aside in our other hand the brokenness and decay of our own debilitation and hold it up as sacrifice to the continuation. To the process.
As a balance between evidence of what we'd been made to feel proud of and a warning against the mistakes we'd all made. The incisive chaotic eyebrows had all been suggestive pretense for what amounts to little more than a knowing nod in the right direction on the evolutionary highways. We find ourselves exenterated, sideways-displayed between two thick planes of plexiglass time for our curiosities.
We hope Ricky will put our species in his show, but can only cross our mouths in faux desperation at the significant quantity that separates that overarching equation toward fitness from its true north is termed the flux, and it always has been. It's in the carefully considered abandon in realizing that nothing's ever finished, it just ends.