I fly without wings, and come to you in a vision.
A spiral lines that cross and grow ever outward
to mind's horizon infinity. How many follow the fast track
those highways of primality,
to answers of the human heart, and destinies of secrecy.
How many hours we have pondered the question,
of this, numbers atomicity.
That each is found to divide itself alone, and leave only one.
Stand with me then on the center point and stretch the gaze out towards the truth.
Ulam's endless plain.
However many there are, there will always be at least one more,
however far the desert spans, it will always end one day.
However long the road, it will halt no matter which compass taken,
however straight the edge, however clean the line.
These numbers, seeds of even perfection,
fond of a monk's obsession,
pondered by the net mind even in these days of digital dimension.
Prime is first, prime is last, and prime to our imaginations still.
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