A warm light is produced by heated argument. 
Heat the cosmos can hear. The blazing trajectory halts in NYC or Washington on-to-nowhere, a very mean arc to bridge, all right — erratically stencilled with tweezers-length trapezoids at its austere outer rings that are comparing infinite sets.  
 
Taxonomy, to get back to the cosmos, stands tiptoe atop shoulders of ascending ideas, forgetting the battered raw laborers below lined up on broken mosaics, necks pounding from overtime  
 
like ex-royals.