ABSTRACT
My dessicated formulae are translated into palpable workings of the senses, abuzz with aberrant life, and at once I recognize the flaw in one of my earliest equations compounded a dozen pages on by a further error, and later still, I note a third lapse that, by the merest chance, reconciles the former two, and since — this broken logic to the contrary — my theorem nonetheless holds, I am tempted to leave the manuscript unchanged in homage to the persistence of corruption and the happenstance of rectitude.
