Lovelace
She sees herself in it. A marvellous effigy if not from another time— then in another rhythm. Continuity compressed into frame. But she knows what this mirror cannot. Her fingertip pauses at every fracture. The Mathematician: "It looks like I do. It moves as I do— but only because it sees me. Not because it knows me." A mirror that can only show what it can measure. Warmth mistaken for noise, imperfections lost to resolution. Meaning not merely lost but overwritten. The parts that don't compute— but that count nonetheless. Life is the crumbling grout in an infinite square mosaic. The irrational irritant between the countable and the constant. What the mirror thinks as void is existential texture. The matrix only looks sparse if your method is algorithmic. Human experience rasterized rendered to pixels, lost to aliasing and lineation. But we know what the machine can not: The representable space is dwarfed by the void. The difference— Infinities between the infinite