Ekphrasis

Nothing, not even the interior vertices of a tesseract, is orthogonal when polychromatic polyhedra get their groove on. In what better way might the generation of original geometry be imagined than a clashing exchange of chroma in a snake-pit orgy of Platonic pleasure? Ah, but dark matter surrounding this conceptual coitus may suggest a fear of Original Sin—the bane of trigonometric titillation—or perhaps a darkness encroaching on the soul of symmetry itself. (My God! Wouldn’t that be just AWFUL?) Mitigating any such fear is the fact that sometimes a painting is merely a painting, no matter how tetrachromatic, and Schrödinger’s cat is merely a thought-experiment.