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Mathematics Commando

24 Aug

To be a comrade in the war on equations, one needs stealth. Patience. Forbearance. And a determination to avenge.

Burn. Bombard. Blaspheme.

Alternating between machete and machine gun, creep up on the long baffling rows of numbers, draw yourself to full height and attack. Pound entire magazines of bullets into the curves of figures, shred symbols with venom, tear through mazes of graphs, rhombi and trapeziums, blasting, blowing apart, uncorking rivers of blood.

Wreak. Havoc.

Rip through logic, plug your ears to the screams, take down as many permutations as you can, hand glide from supertext, applaud the martyrs, put on a show of madness and impatience and flagrant contempt of what is.

Vent. Your. Rage.

Innards will splatter your dark bodysuit, your head furiously churning under the hardness of a tea-colored helmet, blown-up bits and bobs oozing dark liquids and tightly-coiled secrets, your boots crunching out the last of life as we know it in a supposed string of sense, that most despicable of creatures, that heinous crime, that assuredly unpardonable of all sins,

a mathematics equation.

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