“On Quantity of Information”
by Walter Pitts
Random remarks are traced by little boys
In wet cement; synapses in the brain
Die off; renewing uplift glyphs mountain
And valley in peneplane; the mouth rounds noise
To consonants in truisms: Thus expands law
Cankering the anoetic anonymous.
“If any love magic, he is most impious:
Him I cut off, who turn his world to straw,
Making him know Me.” So speaks the nomothete
Concealed in crystals, contracting myosin,
Imprisoning man by close-packing in his own kind.
We, therefore, exalt entropy and heat,
Fist-fight for room, trade place, momentum, spin,
Successful enough if life is undesigned.