The daughter of the cosmos was an untamed creature. Heisenberg's muse. She waded through the billows of life like a volatile starling, a dynamic entity dancing through the matrix of kinesthesia, her skin adorned with the shimmer of quantum laws.

The quicker you reach for her, the more blurred her coordinates become. We are after all, like her, clouds of electronic probability. Shine a photon at an electron, demand to know its location, and you dismember its momentum. To amalgamate stability and speed is to worship a phantom face of pure lithe, smooth and featureless. Calculate her velocity too sharply, and you unspool her position.

Heisenberg's muse drowned her string skin into the ocean of microcosmos. She is Tyche. To know is to scatter. To know is to not know, she whispered. She makes me question how much of my reality is real and not the ceramic-glucally infected tooth of a ten year old who has a crush on her dentist. Is anything concrete other than the gauche waltz of numbers that warp the face of truth like a cosmetologist who had cocaine for brunch. Permanence, she said, is an effervescent compund. It exists. It fizzes. It dies.

The maiden of uncertainty is an ugly consort of a constant to Newton's kinematics. Demanding identity in this universe requires a sacrifice, a ∆. A fluctuation in your v. It screams for stagnation. Deceleration.

In a world that often glamorizes self improvement into packaged bottles of aphrodisiacs, filled with collagen and princess pilates classes, we often forget how being lost is a part of the process. Not knowing is chrysalis. Being lost is the most enlightening phases of metamorphosis. Because variability is embroided into the fabric of the universe. ∆ is amniotic fluid of force. The laws is a bargain; there is an almost inevitable trade off between growth and discovery. The question dear reader is, which one will you sacrifice?