Borders are where creativity happens, the fractal edge of turbulence where one reality attempts to mingle with another in a dance of denial.  To win is not the point.  To create a viable form in a previously unknown dimension is the fruit of forgiveness.  Mutually exclusive equations hold hands in a symbolic logic and agree to disagree for the sake of the children, taking solace in the beauty of combination, lying fast asleep in a bed of leaves.  Limbs intertwined avoid unclipped nails and other rough edges folded under for safety, weapons washed waiting for demons of the night yet unslain.  The morning comes right on schedule, like cosmic clockwork, the law of large numbers happening on such a vast scale that we don’t see the changes, the uncertainties, and minute indecisions within the scale of our own puny lifetimes, much less the passage of our sun across the sky.  Motion is the normal state of nature, a fact so obvious yet so illogical to common sense that it’s scarcely acknowledged even now.