A search for the intellectual equivalent to stumbling upon a uniquely beautiful tangle of thread.
In its prosaic meaninglessness and incidental curvature, its gentle contours and linear parameters, we notice a quiet expression of nature's flickering quintessence. Through poring over strings in their varied solitary states we might discover the silent imprint of those systems from whence they came. Systems from which the string departs, taking a line of flight. Presenting possibility for "mesh". Not like that clinical homogeneous line who lives comfortably in the second dimension; the offspring of "point". It reaches longingly towards more a sundry existence. Organic matter making up our roots, hairs, stems and synapses. Interfering with itself, the single multicolored strip of tapestry. It is the good fortune of segments that they can perform such tender linkages to one another.
Conductor and chain, ground and root. Constructed to connect. This sentence may not quite relate to the last, but as a string from the same paragraphical fabric it is a part of the whole nonetheless.
The syntax I use may be strange, but it marks a distinction in my manner of speaking. An indication of the winding cursive letters which have emerged from my meandering trains of thought. My bemused tactile inquiry, a search for miniscule flourishes here and there. Perhaps the world's most puzzling quandaries surrounding that ever-recalcitrant plane of immanence can be best understood by picking out a single strand from its plexus.