When I was a mathematician I slept three hours each night with dreams of abelian groups and algebraic closures. My gums peeled till dawn, enamel crushed from terrors that the last theorem I proved might curve in on itself, that another infinity could be hiding in the trivial. Since dropping out, I haven’t thought about mathematics. By this I mean moonless nights are now plagued only by bills, indigestion, the poems swimming in my gut. I mean: I wake up already so full of the morning. I mean: I take Galois for granted, Fibonacci at his word. My torment is always drawn to scale. I mean: I appropriate Pythagoras out of spite. I plant gardens on my windowsill and don’t ask for more than they are willing to sprout. I mean: I tell my friends I fell out of love and that is reason enough.