Yes, of course, of course.  Voices in my head, at this moment, were echoing the things that I said.  Or it said.  The merging of thoughts/memes/bots/dreams in the neverending fractal pattern of impossible complexity that defies quantification and definition and semantics and Four Tet Fornication of N6 mumbo jumbo was the thought that I thought at the moment that the bear was pacing at 2 knots in a pattern of the unknot next to his cot and he was fraught with the thought of doom.  Everything has been thought of before, according to my polish piimp.  We shall get to that, do not think that I am a wimp.

Or something like that. 

 My knuckles were white.  My teeth were clenched and the dreams of losing teeth were fetched from my finite state machine.  I was scared.  I needed the coin.  I needed an out from this place.  Don’t build The Bot, bro, write the story about building The Bot, thought I.

Leo babbled a bunch of things in Russian (I knew it was Russian because I know some Russian) to the bear, firstly softly and then, in western polysonic symmetry, his decibel levels increased in powers of something, I think 2, with each nanosecond.  Compute that .  He barked out gospadi boza moi to the bear and the bear  growled and rattled the cage and then the bear meandered to the central table and smashed the remaining macroscopic piece of the microscopic technologically infused laptop into bifurcating /2 pieces of plastic metal micro chip silicon grains of sand, which is, er, made of silicon maybe.  Leo then shook his head and hobbled to the hyperbolic edge of the room on the opposite side of the cage and opened a door to what appeared to be a closet filled with an endless supply of new laptops.  He pulled out a new laptop and brandished what looked like a stun-gun, the sight of which sent the poor bear screaming in horror and crawling like a cowardly cub to the antipodal side of the cage. Just then, Kitty sauntered in coyly and let out a rare, which precipitated a noticeable hesitation on the part of Leo, as if he had to wet his hand with his tongue, grab a mirror and make sure that the scant dearth of optimally distributed oases of hair on his homotopically nontrivial head were handsomely combed into a vector field of beauty that should, surely, hopefully, invalidate the hairy ball theorem but which, if true, would imply that Leo was not a sphere.  Proof by contradiction, and fuk the constructionists.  If Leo could comb the hairs on his head without creating a cowlick, then leo is not a sphere.  But who is a sphere anyway?

Leo ranted and entered the cage, averting his eyes away from Kitty, but I sensed he also felt proud to show his bravery to his kitten, for I did sense a few fleeting stolen glances from him towards her.  He plopped the laptop on the table whilst the bear cowered in the corner with the thing that looked like a taser pointed at him by Leo.  Leo then giggled in triumph and backstepped his way out of the cage, took a deep breath, locked the cage door, laid down his gun and then he rested and I sensed he was taking in the splendor, the enjoyment of the feat he had just achieved.  He then rose and explained that the bear was his “partner” and that the bear had proposed that pretty much, everything has been thought of before and that the closed timelike curves (CTC) which could be afforded through careful solutions of the Einstein Field Equations, plus Energy Conditions and experiments and so on, ie, the RHS of the equations that relate the a=a etc nonsense (stress, momentum, energy, blab bla bla) to the (n,1) signature pseudo-riemannian metric, and, well, let’s face it, measure theory is just a drop in the bucket in the complex sequence of ideas leading to something so satisfying and brilliant,  billiard ball brilliant,  appealing as, gravity is geometry but, heh, have fun with the right hand side.  The right hand side.  Anyway, Leo said that the bear said that the lifespan of all thoughts in the universe was finite, that the set of all thoughts/ideas/memes/dreams was finite since the universe was finite, would have finite lifespan, that thoughts were information, that information could be quantized, and that, therefore, due to the Copernican Principle of boring middledom that there was nothing important about the spacetime encapsulation of a thought.   I didn’t quite get it at the time, but I finally did and will go through it with all of you at the opportune time, but it basically boils down to Bayesian Statistics and assumptions about things.  Mental Doomsday, basically.  Basically, the bear said that there was very small probability that they had a new idea/strategy, and, when factoring in the possibility of CTCs (the short looped, highly curved CTCS could propogate into the future via an analytical continuation, and, even accounting for the noise, by basic probabilities, all the future thoughts could be brought back to present, rendering any current thought been there done that-ish), that it made new thoughts even less probable.  Leo laughed and asked why is it that everyone from D to T was recreating, for example, the Anthropic principle?  He was mocking the bear, because he didn’t believe it.  Thoughts were unique creations in Leo’s mind; there was a never ending supply of ideas/thoughts/dreams/memes, The Quixote was still alive, don’t give up, no matter whether there is darkness and dark matter and decaying bodies and brains requiring mental versions of viagra.  Yes, indeed, said Leo, and he then spiraled into a tumultuous torrent of speaking in tongues; he commenced in to repeating over and over again that all swans are white, that this is the same as all non-white things are not swans, that the brain interacts with the future, that we operate in a plane of unknowable, possibly inconsistent logical systems, that QM proved that, that disjunctive syllogisms and ex falso quodlibet should be thrown into the toilet of reasoning, that holes in logic could be measured with topological methods, that the worthiness of a logical system could boil down to the computation of certain topological invariants that could be assigned to CW complexes of categories of theorems/semantics/axioms/NumberSixians and entailments and that, in fact, he agreed with Penrose that maybe GUT would boil down to doing math on objects and arrows, and, well (he was working up quite a froth a this point), that he could just keep putting an endless supply of laptops on the bear’s desk and that finally, come hell or highwater, that the bear would simply would understand, as would kitty, and threads could be cross pollinated and everyone would be happy and books would be purchased, Philosophy lectures given, and meaning could be given to the dullness in the life of your above average survival machine.

Now, the disturbing part about all of this was the following "fact".  when Leo fired up the new laptop on the bear's table and the bear finally stopped whimpering and lazily ambled on his hind legs to the new machine, he pryed open the computer like a clam and I did, I swear I did, see the following information written in gothic font....what the fuck?

Numbersix, 

This thread is the right one...I think you must be creating a fictional author...because I feel confident you have done the basic literature search on your topic of choice and have read the vast array of authors who have worked to explore notions of probability distinct from the straw version you are evoking.  Notions that address the limitations to which you  call attention.

Also, as a courtesy, please include me in your audience by avoiding constructions like "Now of course, we all feel..."

(How easily I am baited, no?)

D

From there it was a bit hazy, but I do remember running out of the corridor, offward and downward away from the bear's lair, pausing in the cavernous candlelit drawing room of the topologically nontrivial creature (and I don't mean the usual topology of you and me, he was different for sure and I have a simple language- Nonlinear N- to express that, later), tapping my shoes and chanting that there's no place like home, but that didn't work, so I ran out of the apartment, down the ten or so flights of spiralling stairs, out through the aperiodically black and white tiled floors and into the street, which was rain swept since it was a dark and stormy night.  I hailed a cab, and after figeting with my portable telephone machine I was able to retrieve the address of the scorpion friend who taunted me into this trick.  I wanted a second chance.  I wanted to flip the coin again and, well, maybe have a new lease on life.  The cab screeched down the arterie of the gothic city that was replete with tenebristic towers with black toothed windows,  reaching for the sky and into the clouds, as if trying to grab with grubby concrete fingers  for something more, more more and fuck everyone below in this city of devils, this amalgam of Dutch traders with no moral compass and worse English and followed by other people with nothing to lose, ie, Irish and Italians and Jews and Puerto Ricans and special high schools and so forth.  Cartesian arteries sprinkled with Northern European late Industrial Revolution and Modern sensibility drenched facades and funny faces informed me through light and shadows of their presence, fleeting as it was, whilst the drunk and swarthy cabbie drove at egregiously high speeds, right, then left, right angled manuvering in the process and listening to asymetrically constructed music from, I don't know, Greece, Turkey or some other cross roads of Linear X stuff.  But after the Minoans. 

He has been a spicy creation, hasn't he?  a bit irreverent and insolent, but he is forgiven. oh, Nonius dammit, I am forgiven.