The line where ocean meets the sky wobbles like the mark of a freshman artist, all straight lines destined to meet there, that point sitting in infinity, all rooftops and lampposts and picture frames will meet up at the convergence, their angles radiating outward, straddling this world and the invisible overlay of God's schematics. We grease-pen in our theories, trying to unravel beauty that befuddles, patterns that smirk at randomness -- I held Fibonacci perfection in my hands at the farmer's market, a type of cabbage I'd never seen, its spokes alien and spiraling. I cradled it, awestruck, the looping protrusions whispering a mathematics I didn't understand. I whispered back, wishing I could speak in numbers.