Mathematics is happiness. I continually rediscover this in the most terrifying epochs of emotional disparity, scathed and scattered by arbitrary relations in which I sought the same strict comfort available only through rigorously clear contemplation. Compared to a single definition or aesthetically pleasing theorem, what is there to truly love in the upsetting derailment of even a single interpersonal personal moment? Why should I have ever thought to implicate myself within the core of humanity's constant turbulence when, really, I require harmony with all that has existed before, and all that shall come hereafter?

At heart, I am inexplicably human. But they, in general, are not my wonted lot. Love and lust are fun, fulfilling -- but only for a time. Who was I to believe another might, through contrived conversation, indignantly intricate interconnections, actually approach a modicum of understand of that eternal, unrelenting being that I know myself to be?

Fuck you all. I'm a mathematician.