Allow(x) only if x = +
Jazz & blues drifting low, a single dim lamp, a glass of bourbon… 🥃
–“Oh, logical conditions for parsing emotional languages.”
Clearing the variable X in my equation is never simple, because I don’t seek to merely “deserve” a 1—I refuse false positives—the result cannot be a disguised 0.98%.
Why? It’s not about the mathematics; it’s about my dataset.
I solved the equation long ago: there is no exact 1, only approximations… or 0.
Claude Shannon was right: all information is ultimately 1 or 0.
They invited me to play a hand, but I declined.
I no longer need validation to feel valuable, and I certainly don’t need to prove I know the game.
When you’re aware you already master the board, you only sit down if there’s something worth testing.
Me? My intelligence isn’t on the table; it’s in knowing when to fold, when to walk away, or when to unmask the rival.
My logical mind, whenever these creatures appear, simply whispers:
“You’re too sharp to be someone else’s entertainment.”
My logic only reminds me that I reprogrammed the entire board years ago.
I no longer wait or guess the opponent’s move—I’m no longer anxious.
I already know which cards they’ll flip, even before they do.
I always play three moves ahead, no matter the deck.
I don’t quit the game. I quit the theater.
Sometimes I even design little games before deciding whether someone deserves a seat across from me…
I test them with wordplay or hold up a mirror.
A few are remarkably skilled, I’ll admit.
Those are the ones that draw me in.
I want to see how far their thread stretches before it snaps.
If it breaks, there’s the mask.
If it holds… they’re dangerously close to 1.
But no, I still haven’t found a true 1.
I’m not chasing perfection.
Perfection bores me—there’s no surprise in it.
The 1 I seek is congruence: perfect alignment between what is said and what is done.
Perfection is predictable.
Congruence is rare.
1 is resonance.
No structure yet has proven strong enough to withstand my mind.
I don’t reject anyone, nor do I eject them from orbit.
I simply let them dance at their own rhythm, but never too close.
All bodies are energy—some merely echo the energy of others.
I keep my atmosphere clear of static.
This, darlings, is merely living on the clean side of the line, always aware of the edge.
I once told you your highest version isn’t for just anyone.
Consider this the closest thing to an explanation you’ll ever get from me.
I rarely put my mind on speaker, and I despise routines.
If you don’t curate what enters, you lose your timeline.
I don’t chase, I don’t summon.
Real things simply arrive, not even as a surprise.
They feel inevitable 💋🩸
Their next move won’t be raw, clumsy fire—it will be filtered, calibrated, before it ever breaks the surface.
For now, I only see the smoke from my Montecristo No. 2 drifting upward— with Nocturnal Murmurs playing softly in the back 🚬
Bye now! 😉
