Forty million seconds have passed since I felt compelled to pick at old wounds, and all I've received for what couldn't be avoided is the fact that my inner voice can't provide evidence that defies our suspicions that one and one is two. I want to get to the end as much as anyone else, but mathematics is a hereditary condition, the beauty of which cannot be argued. Admirers of it must therefore either be asexual, must look at the rules of the internet, or must be allowed to enter a vacuum in which the meaning of the word beauty is returned to the eye.
Mathematics isn't child's play, but the handling of coloured blocks can feel like it. This has a tendency to push us away from the foundation. In my case I have no reason to stop playing with coloured blocks; as may be observed. In fact I find myself that much behind-hand that I have preferred to avoid calling myself a mathematician. Doing so has much to do with wounds made as by repeated electric shocks.
'No, I don't want your other half.'
A container is indistinguishable from a block itself. Set theory gets us to look for a Relation--which is just not cricket--or for The Game--which is about doing everything except noticing the Match in front of you. Looking at a voice is another thing that every generation thinks they're experiencing for the first time.
Trying to avoid being pre-empted into talking about multitasking at the mention of threads, and not wanting to refer to infinitessimals, I must accept the best that nature can give me. Cloning spiders might not be up everyone's waterspout: I know that nothing stays the same, but if you're willing to say 'rename', eentsy-weentsy spider is better than half Brian or half Ian.