Cutting myself to ribbons.

A few hours of sleep, yet...

In "ad ignorantiam", I would reach for Ockham's blade. The very one that cut me to the quick. The very one that, given enough evidence, favours the explanation with less entities within.

The very one I wielded when I came to the conclusion that there's just no need to busy myself with deities, gnomes and unicorns.

The very one that insinuates itself in my processes. As in:

-"What's the need for this unnecessary whole (me) to be introduced in her reasoning?" Logically, none.

But, whoever said our feelings and actions are ruled by logic? We use logic to rationalize our decisions and validate them after the fact. We love to use the "post hoc, ergo propter hoc".

or,

-"With the little evidence available, how can I assert she didn't just turn tail and run for safety?"

"Safety from what?", is my immediate reply in that particular Carthesian dialogue. "Safety from me or, rather, what she sees in me. Maybe from herself" And who in sweaty hell does know? Not me.

This last one usually precludes the onset of a headache or a series of chicken scratchings on paper that I have come to call 'poems'.

The answer lies on the keen edge of Ockham's blade, retermed Hitchens's when it comes to disyuntives on deities.

But that would be an entirely different phallacy altogether: "argumentum ad verecundiam".

Beware how you approach that particular minefield. You,of course, know that.

I do know you probably have seen past that little obstacle in ways that I can't. That's one of the things I love you for, that impossibly cute brain of yours.

Beautiful as the Sphynx, and just as remote. Yet, "...flesh and blood by the telephone..."