when we think of what was quartered in the world before the net, we find season and substance and compass direction–and yet not even earth, as stony as can be, is senselesset; deep below it blends to fire, and its flexions, eons-drawn, bid in[tro]spection. winter’s months are longest; summer’s, always fleeting; there’s always another east, but north bears no repeating. not one of those are[n]as will be bounded at its outward edges, and each of them unequally protects its particular patterns and [p]ledges.
the trouble is, with grids, their tendency to bend when long regarded. something in the eye resists the square, and soon the data there’s discarded. tiles can be treacherous, cobblestones are subject to caprice, bluelined paper’s folded and torn as quickly as rebellion finds release. golden was the rectangle, remember, not its even-handed sibling; no sooner are four sides set still than e[ye]stim[ul]ations start their quibbling.
so when you see those lines laid down in perpendicularallel, remember this: what’s locked up in the grid is given freedom by the fight your eye’s[l]ight’stammer tries to tell.