Within the scriptorium, I trace the intricacy of the ineffable. Authoring is the ascetic practice of embellishment. Madness and concentration compound themselves into one slight manuscript. I create my own addendum and idle in the open margins. I have broken these knots of consciousness into equations. My task is to elucidate the mathematical construct of belief. A square is unity. The way the land divides into fields echoes the construct of my designs. I write it down, I synthesize its passages. Still, my human hands are imperfect. This medium forces me to distort figures, to renege on whatever realism they are born from. Only a translator, I interpret the great scribe’s work. He has mapped and guided my design, woven the grid that guides me.