It pays to be a detective of the already totally known as if no one had the slightest idea what they were on about when they reported the crime of knowledge.

You want to go all Sherlock and House… not on the mysteries… on the ordinaries. Because it’s the everyday stuff, the little back and forth of common conversation and assertion… where the -real crimes- are hiding.

Crimes of myopic stupidity so vast that one must occasionally recoil from the endlessly sophisticated circularity of the habits and ideas that not only support, but demand that our minds be reduced to inner conflict over fictions.

Yes, one must recoil. Not only to cleanse oneself of the incipient and contagious stain of popular ignorance, but also to, from a proper remove, re-evaluate the structure so as to easily determine how to redirect its momentum against itself, in favor of the mind it has so mercilessly and absolutely afflicted.

But do not cease your efforts there, that is the moment to redouble them. For once you have seen and sensed the structure of the traps and their nefarious purposes and masters, you will nearly have the identity of real Professor M. in hand. And there, dear friends, you shall find an adversary equal to your every prodigy and eccentricity of genius. Indeed, more than equal.

You may find that not only has he been closely observing you all along… but that you were the unwitting tool of his tactics, while thinking yourself the champion of the true and the good… for he was in your mind, your way of seeing itself involved his fingertips.

The thread of his fiendish culture had not been excluded from the those cunning personal techniques you so cleverly devised to trace him out… and thus, as you pursue him in the world, beyond yourself, in the minds and thoughts of the common people… he is pursuing you… from within.

The gap shall one day close.

Till then, wise wonders… chase the question. Deep within and on the sound, here and everywhere as all the ordinary moments, there the keys are lost. Deep within the insight all have long forgotten, there the locks they spring are found. Deeper still, in silent tracings, all the workings of the vault. And yet, far deeper, into darkness. There the secret. There, the art.