Steve woke up early on Thursday morning. He had a busy but not particularly challenging workday ahead of him, and he thought that the time would pass quickly. Afterward he would go to the bar around the corner with people from work and some friends, and that would be enjoyable.
What to wear, what to wear?
He surveyed an array of button-down shirts, many of them made of fabric treated to make ironing unnecessary. This was an excellent innovation that had occurred during his lifetime. These are the golden years, he thought.
To a casual observer the shirts were largely the same, with small variations on the theme of a grid of lines on a solid background. To Steve they represented a wildly differentiated menagerie of expression. Light purple lines at a 3/16" spacing on white versus dark blue at 1/4" were as unalike as a dolphin and a kangaroo. The one spoke of the order imposed by a fascist regime on an unwilling public (to which in weaker moments he took a romantic shine) while the other was an example of emergent form-making rising from fundamental principles inherent to all matter. He did not notice that he was almost inaudibly whispering, "Snowflakes . . . snowflakes. . . ."
Finally he selected a shirt with white lines spaces at 1/8" on a blue background. This represented pure chaos, an inversion of any semblance of consciousness, thought and matter unbound in an ever-unraveling quantum haze of superimposed states of possibility. "Besides," he thought,
"Bitches love grids!"