The slow current of madness starts to be brief, bent, weaved into a spiral, in a snail, in the beginning (or the end?) being
tightened, being pressed, being pressed by a coil to a coil, a line to a line, a point to a point, forward to the limit, a threshold,
singuljarnosti in which silly logarithms fail away from the world, from the Universe, reject even the mad logic, laugh at syllogisms,
leaving to the roots, sources, to the Beginning of the Beginnings, though also it is too simple, too on chelovecheski, too
beautifully and primitively to be at all the truth, not a truth shade, and especially - trues but only any hint, tiny dab in which the
unknown genius will see the whipping end (or the beginning) a mad snail, all the infinity untwisted in another party involving in
the coils new and new steps of a hell descent on which to ice lake gradually deduces us upward to the sun.