This is what happens when Peabody and his pet boy Sherman start packing the hydro in the Pringles can. And these physicists are smart. Truth is, I find this kind of uncertainty strangely comforting. Maybe it feeds some small flicker of monistic faith in me. But in a wider swath, I relish how it absolutely cripples those propped up with dogmatic arrogance and jowly hubris. Oh sure, they might respond to these things with something like, "Well there's your proof of God or Allah or whatever..." not really realizing, by saying that, they've undermined their stick-in-the-mud positions even more so.*SIGH*
I'm a big fan of the works of Michio Kaku who shoots hoops in this complicated gym, and I've had my noodle fried by a pretty good local sailor who works in the applied physics lab at Hopkins. We don't know anything, really, so maybe we should just chill out, be decent humanists, take a long walk in the woods or fly a kite on the beach.
This has nothing to do with writing stories, but it brings me to this groove this evening, rain a-tick-tick-ticking at the window, elm trees shedding their worth. Take it away, Jack.