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Philosophic in its complex, ovoid emptiness, a skillful pundit coined it as a sort of stopgap doorstop for those quaint equations Romans never dreamt of. In form completely clever and discrete—a mirror come unsilvered, loose watch face without the works, a hollowed globe from tip to toe unbroken, it evades the grappling hooks of mass, tilts the thin rim of no thing, remains embryonic sum, non-cogito.