The trilateral divisions fold into themselves and almost touch. Touch is the physiological confirmation of being, the memory embedded within layers and layers of skin, geologically compressed organs that beat only in the presence of our lover’s hands. In anatomical congruity we find an unprecedented form of fascination, fingers that seem to replicate in slightly altered measurements. Parts and pieces that seem to fit like long forsaken algebraic equations, though numberless, defying formulaic directives, they recompose of this reality into an order disordered from our previous mishaps. Yet the consequence for our newfound realities, like mere theoretical models of science and philosophy, stand defeated before the reality that we must wake to, the reality that we cannot escape.