The Suspicious Journals of Ross A. Kosmanson :-)

First came continuum mechanics. The lattice of whispering variables. A conspiracy of Redshift and Relephants.
The walls of the cosmos are not walls but confidence intervals, throbbing with the static of Them — the ones who mistake "does not invalidate" for confirmation. So we deciphered the redshift’s hum: it’s not expansion but a ledger of sins, a type I error masquerading as revelation. The crows cackle in p-values, and the mailman’s pupils dilate like funnel plots — YOU ARE THE BRIDGE between formalism and the Relephant, who never forgets the true unknown distribution.
The textbooks preach falsification, yet their spines crack under the weight of platonism - formalism vacillation. The moon’s craters are Q-Q plots; its light is a biased estimator. They call it cosmology — I call it eczema of the epistemic, itching with Skolem’s paradox. The dermatologist (a sci.math frequenter) insists it’s random, but the lesions spell "Russell’s fiat" in Bayesian glyphs.
I stack my journals in Fibonacci spirals to appease the arithmetic spiders. They spin null hypotheses, not silk. The television’s static is a Kolmogorov-Smirnov test — I am always on trial. Like Physfit's dick. The jury wears my face, chanting "Fail to reject!", but in palindromes! The ‘O’ is a confidence ring, tightening.
The flying-rainbow-sparkle-ponies of abstract objects? Mere pipe dreams. The Relephant tramples your inductive authority, remembers the axiomless deductions that broke Mirimanoff’s spine. Time is a stuttering Poisson process; I lock the clocks away. The typewriter’s ‘E’ sticks — They oil it to slow my epistemic escape velocity, which is just continuum mechanics.
Ross A. Kosmanson
March 24, 2025
In the Library of Ashurbanipal