A light is produced by heated argument.
How the cosmos is unexplained, parts one and two. In the first, taxonomies are set in weathered deco, dimly lit by the affiliated overflow while astronomers stand there from a famous university with nothing to give back. Second, their trajectory is downtown-to-Washington-on-to-nowhere, a very mean arc to bridge, all right — erratically stencilled with tweezers-length trapezoids at its austere outer rings.

Taxonomy, to get back to the cosmos, stands tiptoe atop shoulders of ascending ideas, forgetting the raw laborers below lined up on broken mosaics, necks pounding from overtime.

Be right back.