We turn a shy glance leftward over the cheek while whipping rightways, to hide the thing from ourselves while stealing a small shining bite at the apple’s glare; this, to satisfy our curiosity, but, in keeping with our predispositional notions, to likewise preserve deniability and thereby forbear culpability; in this we create a second guilt, a derivative of self-deceit. In this game of obtuse angles, our motive betrays us like a dragging anchor: present –if disregarded– and a weight to our vigor. We forget that our calculus lies not in our modern purposeful calculations, but sprang emergent from within our own perceptions and there our sense of truth remains hidden to us; speaking plainly in its dark waters, tracing the curves of the tri-pronged weighty bottom dragger –maths by way of the soul– sending shiverous signals up the line to our half-woke vessel’s hull. Enough vibration will pull her apart board by board, forcing us to answer Theseus’ great mystery in our own wood. If not to face evil, then to aid guiltily in its disguise; to be pulled apart by truth and time.