Godel built on that to the point where no formally logical structure can contain all possible cases, and that there are cases that are logically indefinable. Thus no formal logical system can be complete as much as we wish to have certainty in all things, such as love, and desire, and the color of sunsets.

We journey through the world. The light that passes us streams into space, voices on the radio pass beyond us, pass out into the great deeps of the galaxy and nebula. The signals faint and almost lost in the general background hiss of the hydrogen spectra, a dull soft reminder of the singularity that ruptured and bore the universe itself into being.

So we send signals, wondering if we are reaching the other, wondering if the bandwidth is heard and can be tuned. So I send to you a message through the recent static
of the passing storms that have rent our lives.

The sun falls down the well of Earth's shadow. The cloud tops and mountains stretch across the sky as dark arrows pointing towards the deeps of night where unbidden dreams rise as partial payment for being human.

Embracing an instant of possibility arising out of action, a confirmation of cause and effect, the stars wink on. The heavens shot spatter the deep bowl of night above the rind of the afterglow that edges the rim of the world.

In Golden Gardens Park, on late summer cliffs, the wind whispers through the yellow grasses and gusts small sand dunes into being.
Over the Sound, in a hammered instant of times ascendancy, a ferry moves through times matrix, hazed with the distance, a green hull and white superstructure ripple across vibrating water. Bainbridge, the Peninsula, the Olympics, the color of blue slate. Above the snow line the airglows a superrational light fringed by blinding white. The face of the Brothers on the Olympic Range an enigma floating in the sky.

Sea gulls wheel, cormorants dive and hunt, seals bark among the rocks below. The shore is strewn with the wreckage of storms, and the rusted evidence of ships, and the remains of human contact with the sea, a shoe, and a soda can. Crabs wander randomly, waving across pigtailed kelp.

Leaves whisper fluttering, their pale undersides exposed, stoma closing in the afternoon light, still white and summery, the sun drifting down.

The soft sand of these cliffs, glacial silt, lain down 15,000 years before, sculpted since by wind and rain. Ice once overlay here 5,000 feet deep. Once the cold of the arctic filled the air and there was the subsilence of eternal winter, at least until the next millennial thaw.