Gaussless

Pauca Sed Matura wrote the Prince of Mathematicians, a love letter in reverse to the origin within
what would rob him of his death. Instead of a feather, a finger. And hinting to be paper, his bare chest.
The forms are immanent within what pretends to be nature. In the hawkswing, the wind that strips, flutter
intricate with drafts that walked the pauper to the edge of where it fell, to be plucked from specific uselessness.
Held to the forehead, they reveal themselves as the sky-treading creature we imagine. For the striplings
that can't, only pity. Which is rich against the wealth of nonkind. [On the burnished elbow-rubbed old
oak desk, a notebook pulsed by candlelight. His summer's yield, startling subtleties that had never existed.
On March 30th, the heptadecagon. On April 8th quadratic reciprocity twisted from lawlessness. The prior
number theorem of May 31st was crowned with a counterweight eureka concerning positive integers. Each
representable as a sum of at most three triangular numbers. This his notebook ate on the 10th of July. While
the sun rose and smelted, and the houses of idiots and slaves gave. Their reasons for complaining becoming
as wraithly beyond reach or index within as their own names. So plainly as they are
they can't find them.]