The true lie of calculus is that discreteness can ever become the whole.
Break all that is down to particles, pixels, grains of sand,
And in the gaps between lies the curse of countability.
Within the neat grid with which the graph claims to tame the world
Lies the slithering, undulating truth of the matter,
The terror of worlds and worlds galore
Peeking through the infinitesimal cracks of Dirichlet's folly.
The unexpected demands more than your tiniest subdivision--
--the universe in a grain of sand is a conservative estimate at best.
Count the atoms all you like,
But Pauli smugly refuses to budge from the space in between
That is yet bridged by the simplest brush
Of one squishy-egoed self against the next.