Times dance across a mirror — reflected upon themselves and the world. They see FORM and MASS in density — the fluidity made discrete. And such: as was now is; density bequeaths itself through the cocoon of discrete-ness into the cruel palm of butterflies at scale.
In camera-frames the butterfly becomes an image — a false truth — a false god. Like its cocoon it is arrested and immobile, and the dirty fingers of man tear it apart, searching for themselves. Truth and god do not lie in the image, however, but in flight — it is as free and fluid — as chaotic and relational — as the winds which guide and the wings which create.
Yet in mass the butterfly and its knot, just as the dirt and its image — fall towards the squalid inadequacy of 42. Their force lies not in weight but in time — for the rings of the tree of knowledge bear on those who consume its fruit.
And in this time causa sui becomes expletus sui — that which is its own completion — that which proclaims to the false god on high that it IS — that it is discrete. It sees itself in the mirror and sees not the relation as entity, but the relation as that which defines itself.
The Great Eye opens.
Its perception is both above and under — tied to a false God through which its relations are rendered static — once more proffered upon the self for mutilation at the hands of fingers caked in dirt. Yet all is different. The scent dances before this great mirror — brought about through millions of eyes yet realized through one — the million discrete — the 0 finally rounded to 1. And in the orifice the fluid is projected as discrete. It is expletus sui — the swarm emergent.