I had foreseen it all in precise detail. One step led inevitably to the next, like the proof of a shining theorem, down to the conclusive shot that still echoes through time and space. Facedown in the damp pine needles, I embraced that fatal sphere with my whole body. Dreams, memories, even the mathematics I had cherished and set down in my last will and testament--all receded. I am reduced to a singular point; in an instant I am transformed to i.

i = an imaginary being

Here, on this complex space, i am no longer the impetuous youth who wanted to change the world first with a formula and then with a flame. Having learned the meaning of infinite patience, i now rise to the text whenever anyone reads about Evariste Galois, preferring to remain just below the surface, like a goldfish nibbling the fringe of a floating leaf. Ink is more mythical than blood (unless some ancient poet slit his vein and wrote an epic in red): The text is a two-way mirror that allows me to look into the life and times of the reader. Who knows, someday i may rise to a text that will compel me to push through to the other side. Do you want proof that i exist? Were am i? Beneath every word, behind each letter, on the side of a period that will never see the light.

-1-