The act of creation is a taste of the infinite. It also speaks of the infinity within that most mysterious numeric digit: zero. Out of the nothing, something. If I contemplate it as I write this, words a million monkeys at a million typewriters wouldn't type in a million years, it is a heady sensation. Zero to one: it is a mystery. Though we do not create the fundamental stuff out of which the patterns are formed, we reassemble that which was so that its structure is something else, something new. That we can continue to do this, to keep on creating original artifacts — that is what I speak of: the sideways eight, infinitas.
Infinity. And perhaps all mysteries, if you look at them closely enough, lead there. Or at least directs you to ponder that imponderable.
