There is a mathematical beauty to our existence, a poetic algorithm. From a series of digits and data a seashell forms in the whorl of an ancient sea. He considered these thoughts, which came to him suddenly while he was grading his students’ papers. The new way of thinking is that everything is information. Our DNA is inscribed with information. Every speck of dust can be read like a tome. But sitting at his work desk, amidst deadlines and obligations, he brushed these thoughts aside and tended to the task at hand.
His students’ writing held some interest. One wrote about how ObamaCare would be the downfall of our economy; another wrote about pot-bellied pigs; and yet another wrote vaguely about the evolution of music. But still while he offered gentle suggestions in his well-practiced tight handwriting in dark blue ink, his mind kept returning to his prior thoughts, and he remembered that they had come rising up out of a dream he had had last night. But what was that dream? Well, the dream itself was long gone from memory. All that remained were these snatches of his subconscious trying now, it seemed, to derail him from this audacious task of assigning grades to the data dreams of others, however unformed and lacking of beauty he found them to be.