Well, im compelled twice before the cock has crown to blog, and let's hope the old noodlebox doesn't betray me, making that thrice, during the long sleep hours that i've been struggling to fill. It is a consequence, I imagine, of my back to term jitters and l'amor che ne la mente more ed mi ragiona, w/ infernal suspirations, that i've been reading poetry. Indeed, I just spent a good while looking for Dante's poem, l'amor che nella mia mente move, which evidently doesn't exist, and isn't even sensibly italian, but which I had taken to mean the love that moves in my mind. However, what does exist is Ciò che m’incontra ne la mente more, what meets me dies in my mind, and l'amor che ne la mente mi ragiona, love that reasons in my mind, from which I, clever sausage that I am, have coined the line above. For it does die, and yet talks, suspirationally ofc, provoking from me tourettesesque self-asriptions of motherfuckerhood and sundry other unpleasantnesses. It's been a poor, resultless few hours, that is to say. However, it indeed das Fleisch weint, der Geist jubelt, and i've been throwing myself profoundly into my logische untersuchungen, which is causing me no end of delight. Today I finally got, well, very almost, the completeness proof, and am thus closer to loewenheim-skolem comprehension. Thence to Hilbert, and you've got yourself an essay baby. So all is not bad, tho the heart does hurt.
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