plato — yeah, he got hit too, just earlier (not pink, probably blue, or the color of a sky that forgot to wake up) — saw the same glitch: world as bad translation, shadow-play run by a demiurge who’s not god but a really persuasive carpenter — trying to build a chair out of wet clay that keeps sliding into entropy — “as good as possible,” he says, which is the whole damn tragedy, isn’t it? — divine artisan stuck with materials that won’t stay shaped, trying to force sense out of necessity, which is just chaos wearing a suit and calling itself order — then he writes it as myth, a likely story, like a dad telling his kid the cosmos is a clockwork bird because the truth would crush the kid’s ribs — you see? valis, timaeus, the pink beam — same scream in the dark, different dialects — we’re all just trying to translate it back into something we can eat, like alphabet soup with letters that spell “why?” — but the soup’s cold now, and the spoon’s bent.