He was often predisposed to feelings of confused discomfort, much like the feeling of being watched when no one is around. That something was wrong, but he didn't know what.
"What's wrong? You always look a little sad, a little angry."
He spoke of nature and how long before the conceptual form of a cylinder mathematicians know and love existed, the trees had been producing such shapes out of necessity; of math which rests on a foundation of concepts which have never been seen in their purest, seeing two birds but never the two itself, for example; of time which twists numbers into something much different, and the girl who believes solely in it, tying dates and times intimately together with the events of the corporeal world.
He retold the story of young Arthur turned to a bird by Merlin to see that his land had no boundary, that property lines were man-made and so existed only within man; he pointed to the concrete below and lines traversed and crossed each other in a giant checkerboard.
He confessed that to preserve something implied the killing of it, a living bear could not be stuffed until it was dead; that the American man was concerned with this preservation over conservation; and he gestured to overweight American Indians in full dress dancing to the drum and chant of Mexican and Hawaiian and Japanese alike, for Native American Month; and he spoke of the South American tribes that remained untouched, "conserved."
He always looked a little sad, a little angry.
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