There are simple pleasures like a late-summer beach walk,
the aroma of freshly baked bread, and waking up after a full
night’s sleep, and there are those not as obvious, like a passage
from Der Tod des Vergil with its seemingly endless sentences,
Kleines Harmonisches Labyrinth that ends in the wrong key,
or Euler’s identity, for which it seems unknown who first
stated it explicitly. But what if they are all just illusions
that I flirt with instead of sharing?
hidden pilcrow 