Never uncovered by tooth-brush or trowel in rectangular pits is the four dimensional object, which is just another square tinked to a cube, an imposing language game playfully fumbled with toothpicks and elmer's glue (or their 'virtual' analogs) instead of the more appropriate lips, teeth and tongue – a labial-dental lingua and not a matter of currency in french or any other "whence?" A seven-sided cube is more misnomer than multidimensional body past three. Four-d is a mathematical possibility but begs the question, not unlike the problem with "energy", "just what is a dimension, anyway?"
In archaeology, the fourth dimension is the excavator. In linguistics, it is air in and out of a chest and not a branch of semantics at all. Pollution is what happens to air when it loses its commodity value. But fallout is always marketable.
Where is the tactile sense in that beyond feeling one's own head set to vibrate at its sides or its gullet? Should the function of any discourse be exorcism – the removal of spells or ephemeral presence – and more appropriately labelled de-curse as a medical practice? Then what of enchantments and anonymous presents? Such is the cornerstone of impossibilist discourse in a materialist philosophy which must exclude any relative artistic impression (whether or not expressed in the past), just to preserve its sacred integrity, still glued to good and bad magic and their rectification, but rarely discussed except between nations with the grammatic accusative.
While the dreamer has no aversion to hands-on experience or the reality of bricks (seen often, in fact, promoting them both), dream and mythic poetry remain, still undistinguished by the realist but only within that great void of intolerable nothingness – "does not exist!". That is the picture of conservatism always and only painted by the most progressive of think-tinkers.
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