Merry Principled Wanderers
An Impromptu Poem on the night before a Real Analysis Final in the dark corridors of the high school behind the bustling faux-buzz of my little sister's basketball game:
Watch tight beholden to a summer's fleeting graces and span the untidy tidings of fallow furrows in earth below and above the heart broken and beating mistress of reality, wherein sinister parables of forlorn lost and languid lovers miss their mark by twenty spans.
I spread my wings beyond the depths of my ages before my sinking solemnity, mired in moors and bogged by bogs of grand repute.
Admit only what you wish to know and never the converse: for that is treason against knowledge and sacrelige against hope and libel against inductivistic impulses Spinning, SPawning, SPIralling away from nightingale graces mingled with morningdove verisimilitude-laden nothings of somethings left behind for a rainy afternoon.
I miss the careful (methodical) humming (dare I say?) of compulsion in its purest; where did you go? why don't you stay a while in my arms?
But fleeting is oft repeated and without manner or form and you, after all, are nothing but senses that are everything.
Descartes sings in the chorus of hell, where all transpose in keys of blue but resonate a white black gray noise sealing the recession.
Michael
Watch tight beholden to a summer's fleeting graces and span the untidy tidings of fallow furrows in earth below and above the heart broken and beating mistress of reality, wherein sinister parables of forlorn lost and languid lovers miss their mark by twenty spans.
I spread my wings beyond the depths of my ages before my sinking solemnity, mired in moors and bogged by bogs of grand repute.
Admit only what you wish to know and never the converse: for that is treason against knowledge and sacrelige against hope and libel against inductivistic impulses Spinning, SPawning, SPIralling away from nightingale graces mingled with morningdove verisimilitude-laden nothings of somethings left behind for a rainy afternoon.
I miss the careful (methodical) humming (dare I say?) of compulsion in its purest; where did you go? why don't you stay a while in my arms?
But fleeting is oft repeated and without manner or form and you, after all, are nothing but senses that are everything.
Descartes sings in the chorus of hell, where all transpose in keys of blue but resonate a white black gray noise sealing the recession.
Michael
posted by Michael Barany at 9:16 PM
1 Comments:
Final went well. Two problems that are approachable without a lot of background (at least visually):
4) prove that if f is continuous and bounded by n on some interval [0,m] (m less than or equal to n) then it touches the line f(x)=x at least once on the interval [0,n]
7) prove that if f(0)=0 and f'(x)>f(x) for all x>0 then f(x)>0 for all x>0.
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