I remember once, when I was kissing Johannes in bed, we lay there paused. He asked me what I was thinking about, and I said, "Mathematical equations." He said, "What?!?" as though I said I had been thinking about my taxes. Really, I had been thinking about us--as mathematical equations. I was having incredibly romantic thoughts about the scale of ourselves, about how we were like two galaxies passing through each other--galaxies do that, you know. Drifting in space, they can just pass right through each other. They are slightly altered because of the gravity of having done so, but they emerge with their individuality intact. Two galaxies.

Our cells, you know how much space there is in our bodies? Ages of space. We're made of practically nothing. We're made of floating bits of matter held together by gravity and held apart by mathematical equations. Seeing it that way makes me happy, makes the event of being human wonderful: full of wonder. The thought that we were two incredibly complex mathematical equations, hugigantic galaxies of space, encountering each other and making our hearts beat fast--made me that much happier to be in love. The heartbeat of a galaxy.

I tried to explain it to him, but I didn't explain it very well. I didn't hear any wonder in his voice when he gave me a dubious okay.

I like to do that; I like to put things on a different scale.

I'm eating a strawberry. I bit it in half, and was looking at the structure of its walls. They are actually really weird. It's a soft wall that unfolds fractally outwards from an empty center; it's a soft form made only of flesh that nourishes offspring. It's almost alien, it's like I can see it breathing. Almost as if I saw the raw and horrific process of how the center of its flower swelled and pushed outwards and grew red.

It really tastes that much better, and I feel alive.

2:52 p.m. 2004-05-22�