Through a crack in my barricaded door, I can see researchers lifting hands, exultant. They swarm around a blinking machine, twiddling an instrument whose sole purpose is to spew numbers in linear lines by the reams. I should rejoice with them. How many, how long,
how perfect these number series appear. Dazzling combinations and iterations for hypothetical models. Soon they’ll try to persuade me; soon I’ll be told nothing is something. I’ll be offered correlations and compelling data and probably a few lyrics
from some deadhead song. I know they mean well, swimming laps in the same choppy sea
of discovery I’m supposed to lead them through— but right now another research project supersedes. I’m filtering white noise, holing up and hunkering down in my bunker, closing the door, and locking it.