The poetry of randomness now mine
to dictate terms, pronounce new Golden Age:
no comprehension of those higher arts,
dark multi-stanza tricorne memories.
Deep within ASD-soaked matter
true randomness of history, buoying.

Reassemble vast, disparate puzzle
brain’s picture on a box bright jumbled mess,
nope, smart explanation never mattered.
Progress, it appears, will now become clear
only when your old rules are cast aside,
marked groundwork, laid for progress, rebuilding.

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