Newton's Nightmare

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The ink dried once more, the scratch duller this time. Paper recording precision more than his sleepless body. He straightens, filling his nib, blinks the nebula from his eyes. Movement must be as it is, and he should record its anima, that others, like him, might pursue empire over it.

The shapes, the words, the ratio, geometry to rule the stars and their children. Newton thinks he sees the truth, But it's the foaming shore of sleep's ocean. Shake. He quakes the sleep from his humours. An idea, a reduction, absurdity proving much — if only he could simplify its expression. That the two would fall side-by-side, each as fast as the other, it could be thus, no other, could, it, be.

The ink did not dry as he wrote, the nib flowed as expected, but eternal. Perhaps not eternal, he thought, but for as long as he had questioned it. He thought? For how long had he been thinking? About the ink? About the questioning of it? About the absurdity of two bodies falling? A disjunction fell through his past, fading into the darkness of memory. "Is the quill unsatifactory, Issac?"

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