(no subject)
Dearest Julia,
As the afternoon sun filters through the slits in the blind, I am reminded of how, with such effortless serenity, you would look to me as the light diffracted across your face. I would crumble in your reflected wave, a particulate man, swept up and become one. Please my angel, do not doubt our singular duality. Were you here to see the tear damp ground below my feet, you would find a broken man whose one sustaining thought is that nothing can limit the infinite dimensional Hilbert space of our love.
Oh how I miss the way you would ever so casually, with a single glance, collapse our Ψ-function. I long for our superposition and the way you would arch your brows with closed lids as I reduced your wave packet again and again. Darling, this eigenstate is cold and lonely. Believe my love is as pure as gold and it pains my heart like a thousand alpha particles fired at my nucleus to think I shall live out the rest of my days in solitude. I still have the glasses and the lab coat you wore in the bedroom, but, you must know, my Schrödinger is useless without your Niels Bohr.
You were position, and I, poor I, momentum. And yes, sometimes when we spoke, we couldn’t seem to breach our non-commuting formalism. I know we’ve had our arguments, but please believe they are merely epistemic. You’ve misread Born my dear! Surely our state-vector is an incomplete description of our passion-don’t nail down our probabilities with hateful words like “ontological.” I don’t know where you’re off too, but please, my love, know that your position is my primary physical variable, the world itself is merely relational! I know I’ve no operational support in the laboratory, but on the ash of all that is true and worthy in this universe I swear I feel these Bohmian mechanics in my bones! Please return! My love is as unwavering as Planck’s constant, and my body, though pale white, still radiates like harmonic oscillators with fixed quantized energy.
If you are not moved by these most wretched supplications from a heart more desolate than the barrenness of space, then let the strength of my entreaty rely on one thing: recall, my Julia, that night in late June, overlooking the Adriatic, when, under the haloed glow of the waxing moon, we first ran the double-slit experiment.
Quantum Mechanically yours,
Robert
P.S. I’ve still got photos of your photons misbehaving. I’d wave your particles on home unless you want them interfering in every physics journal on the continent. Biatch.
As the afternoon sun filters through the slits in the blind, I am reminded of how, with such effortless serenity, you would look to me as the light diffracted across your face. I would crumble in your reflected wave, a particulate man, swept up and become one. Please my angel, do not doubt our singular duality. Were you here to see the tear damp ground below my feet, you would find a broken man whose one sustaining thought is that nothing can limit the infinite dimensional Hilbert space of our love.
Oh how I miss the way you would ever so casually, with a single glance, collapse our Ψ-function. I long for our superposition and the way you would arch your brows with closed lids as I reduced your wave packet again and again. Darling, this eigenstate is cold and lonely. Believe my love is as pure as gold and it pains my heart like a thousand alpha particles fired at my nucleus to think I shall live out the rest of my days in solitude. I still have the glasses and the lab coat you wore in the bedroom, but, you must know, my Schrödinger is useless without your Niels Bohr.
You were position, and I, poor I, momentum. And yes, sometimes when we spoke, we couldn’t seem to breach our non-commuting formalism. I know we’ve had our arguments, but please believe they are merely epistemic. You’ve misread Born my dear! Surely our state-vector is an incomplete description of our passion-don’t nail down our probabilities with hateful words like “ontological.” I don’t know where you’re off too, but please, my love, know that your position is my primary physical variable, the world itself is merely relational! I know I’ve no operational support in the laboratory, but on the ash of all that is true and worthy in this universe I swear I feel these Bohmian mechanics in my bones! Please return! My love is as unwavering as Planck’s constant, and my body, though pale white, still radiates like harmonic oscillators with fixed quantized energy.
If you are not moved by these most wretched supplications from a heart more desolate than the barrenness of space, then let the strength of my entreaty rely on one thing: recall, my Julia, that night in late June, overlooking the Adriatic, when, under the haloed glow of the waxing moon, we first ran the double-slit experiment.
Quantum Mechanically yours,
Robert
P.S. I’ve still got photos of your photons misbehaving. I’d wave your particles on home unless you want them interfering in every physics journal on the continent. Biatch.