Rémi's eyes close, and he smiles nostalgically.

It is, Rémi says, embracing ineptitude.

You will never, ever be whole.

You will never, ever be everything.

And unintuitive as it may be, he says, it is this recognition, this revision of cognition, that propels, impels, compels context forth.

When placed among the rest of existence, I say, it synthesizes into more; the definable which can take form, he says; the precipitate that acquires shapefulness, I say; the impulse, he says, worth everything.
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