Decoherence

The foams of time and space
bubble in the foundations of the real
forming fortuitous dimensions,
lines that would touch in infinity,
but curve inward,
as in some string theory,
never daring to reveal themselves.

Our superimposed horizons,
so full of boundless possibilities,
Meet beyond the measured touch,
in the collapse of our experiment,
in the affront of my foolish experience.

Not even light could pierce
the entire sad wholeness of space.
Cosmic indifference
separates beginnings from our noblest ends
filling everything with noise and radiation.

This is surely just
one of many possible worlds,
but we are anchored by the real,
in the Cartesian nature of time,
with our chiralities previously defined.
Where could the better versions of me reside?

Laplace's demon
Has finally closed its leaden eyes.
The box is open and the cat is...