On Every Letter Being Caged on Graph Paper

We are meeting again for the first time in a long time, our usual spot, the same back room. I am meeting the architect I once lived with, one of three I have lived with, and we are met by a handful of his architect friends paying tribute to his visit in the city. We are in Long Island, the one located in Brooklyn, close to Manhattan. I am sitting in the last booth reading about Walter Pitts and Norbert Wiener and MIT's fraternal quest for understanding neurobiology. To prove how the brain works by means of making a model. These men would go on from the mid-century to pioneer advances in cybernetics and artificial intelligence. 

Seeing is neither believing nor understanding, but to construct from scratch is to assemble a working knowledge.

The tiny lamp illuminating me alone in my booth casts a small yellow glow from under the silver shade, a tiny pull chain dangling motionless. I want to pull the chain to see if it functions, but I do nothing. I am thirty minutes early with a bag of books and am reading alone in the last booth, two cups of water. The second cup is so that other people know I have company, coming.

I continue to read about Pitts describing the unnameable ache that he assumes to be a depression. Why so glum, boy? Why so blue? How smart is sad? He had colleagues, and confidants, and research before here in his story, here where he begins to question what he has lost by those who have turned away from him and the bottom of the bottle where he has turned towards instead. A fermented fraternal love.

His proof of the mind, his years of abstract concepts welding neurobiology with mathematics and existence, he sends up in flames. Not a letter of scrap to be seen. Years of equations and typing and retyping and proving and disproving and reproving and editing the model of his findings until he had found what no one else had. Gone.

If we take the are out of proof we become nothing.

Is ash a shade of blue?

The realization of depression is troubling him, the feelings are new. He asserts that his depression may share his realization that ultimately, nothing in life is any matter.

Even if it can be proven with math, the value is null; as is the point, the reason, the cause, the effect.

Why bother? Why ask it? Y axis?
Ascend into heaven or plummet into hell, but no formula can solve a purpose or determine one. 
Slide along the y axis.
Slide along the why.

Do you remember when you learned to use a calculator? When you give it a plot you translate a shape from your values. How local is your ex to my why? When you change your plot points your god shows up in the emergence of a curve, a line, and an error. Coordinates that shift together, shape together. Shapes that retain themselves are well-written. All lines must terminate. Errors are not the responsibilities of calculators.