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Once wrote "I love to have written but hate to write" and years later found that another (far more more adept) penned that sentiment first. Once divided a vector by a vector thereby invoking a truly new math. Years later realized that this oversimplification is blessed by the masters. Once found an error in the Encyclopedia Brittanica - a typographical anomaly of historical significance. Having been informed, Brittanica refused to reward; who knows if the error has been corrected: the book is too expensive to buy again. Once an email query arrived in my mailbox out of the blue. It asked "What is wisdom?" For reasons I didn't then understand I answered without hesitating: "Wisdom is the gradient of life taken with respect to eternity." Not clear what this analogical imagery conjures up in anyone's mind nor how to prove it's truth. The latter defines my path and my pickle: I'd rather be elsewhere, but not somewhere else. The former frames my persona: perpetually piqued by pickles.