Infinite Loop Quotes

Memories beget memories. Shen fever being a disease of remembering, the fevered are trapped indefinitely in their memories. But what is the difference between the fevered and us? Because I remember too, I remember perfectly. My memories replay, unprompted, on repeat. And our days, like theirs, continue in an infinite loop.

Plainly it isn't an exact science, despite it being a complex interaction of micro-decisions and corresponding thought; perhaps it doesn't always work and we pass by some potential soulmates like the proverbial ships in the night, never quite connecting. Then again, perhaps the system is tenacious and continues to run like a computer program on infinite loop, so that if at first you don't meet, you are drawn back together for another try.

I enjoy acronyms. Recursive Acronyms Crablike "RACRECIR" Especially Create Infinite Regress

Whatever happened to our dreams? The infinite possibilities each day holds should stagger the mind. The sheer number of experiences I could have is uncountable, breathtaking, and I'm sitting here refreshing my inbox. We live trapped in loops, reliving a few days over and over, and we envision only a handful of paths laid out ahead of us. We see the same things each day, we respond the same way, we think the same thoughts, each day a slight variation on the last, every moment smoothly following the gentle curves of societal norms. We act like if we just get through today, tomorrow our dreams will come back to us. And no, I don't have all the answers. I don't know how to jolt myself into seeing what each moment could become. But I do know one thing: the solution doesn't involve watering down my every little idea and creative impulse for the sake of someday easing my fit into a mold. It doesn't involve tempering my life to better fit someone's expectations. It doesn't involve constantly holding back for fear of shaking things up. This is very important, so I want to say it as clearly as I can: FUCK. THAT. SHIT.

Do you try to look even more adorable every time I see you?

When our eyes meet, his mouth rises into a smile, almost as though he can't help himself, and then I'm smiling too, and then his goes wider, and it seems we might be caught in an infinite loop of beaming at each other like fools. And I wouldn't mind it a bit.

And that was it: infinite loop; no alt-tab out. You could force close, shut down the computer, start all over and run it again, and the game would still lock up and freeze at the same place. "Where's Popper?" No cheat code. Game over. There was no way past that moment.

You wouldn't want to trade the eternal loop of your life for an infinite loop in the world of ideas, would you?

Women are suspicious. Men are devious. Infinite loop.

What a sad and cynical world this has become when one is forced to be suspicious of pie.

Life is like a wheel that you either cling to or fall from and get crushed. And one way or other, it just keeps rolling on and on in an infinite loop.

Core Wound: People with BPD tend to be suffering from a deep wound of rejection or abandonment, which has planted an idea of inner defectiveness in them. This causes them to believe they are inherently worthless and unlovable—that they cannot be themselves, because no one will ever want that person. Note: People with BPD often think “being themselves” equates to being extremely emotional and sobbing, or being clingy and jealous, or manic and impulsive. So the protective self is on its best behavior (idealization period) until it feels safe, and then exposes these more and more dramatic qualities, until eventually people leave. But neither of these sides is who you truly are. They are both the protective self, one “perfect” and another “broken.” The protective self creates an infinite loop to keep you trapped and justify its own existence.

Don’t think. Sweep away the words, ideas, images swirling endlessly in the infernal dance of pitiless affliction. Push back the realization of an unspeakable truth for another second. Don’t speak. Don’t move. Hold on to the illusion of purpose for a few seconds. And when those seconds are over, start again, an infinite loop.

Grief is the ultimate marinade. You become more of whatever you were already: the lonely, lonelier; the angry, angrier; the restless, more restless. Sometimes the faithful manage to emerge more faithful. It’s hard to describe the infinite loop of loss. The closest sensation might be hunger, if eyes and ears and fingertips could be hungry.

when you’re at your most uncertain, face the world as if nothing can shake you.

Mel chuckled and reached out to rub her T-shirt covered belly. “How can something so cute and soft make such a big, scary noise?

Apple’s marketing and communications team works in a building just across from 1 Infinite Loop called M-3, the M standing for “Mariani Avenue”, not for marketing. When the marketers walk through the front door and then two consecutive secured doors, they walk around a light blue wall to get to their desks. On the wall is painted a prominent message in large whitish silver letters. It reads: SIMPLIFY, SIMPLIFY, SIMPLIFY. A broad line is drawn through the first two SIMPLIFYs.

If most of us want good closing images, we have to change society. If we must watch our life over and over again forever on the day we die then we need our own revolution, starting from within. Or we’ll be in hell. Hell is yourself. Or rather hell is watching your shit life being replayed for eternity. Everyone should place the movie of their life on an LCD screen built into the headstone of their grave, and set on an infinite loop. Then anyone who stops by the grave to look at your movie will soon know whether you’ve gone to heaven or hell.

Americans are a strange breed. We love to preach, and we hate being preached at. In one hemisphere of our brains the sermons of Cotton Mather run on an infinite loop; in the other we hear the echo of Mark Twain’s laughter. When the Twain side is napping the Mather side undergoes a Great Awakening. Surges of fevered fanaticism come over us, all sense of proportion is lost, and everything seems of an unbearable moral urgency. Repent, America, repent now! The country is undergoing such an Awakening at this very moment concerning race and gender, which is why the rhetoric being generated sounds evangelical rather than political. That one now hears the word woke everywhere is a giveaway that spiritual conversion, not political agreement, is the demand. Relentless speech surveillance, the protection of virgin ears, the inflation of venial sins into mortal ones, the banning of preachers of unclean ideas—all these campus identity follies have their precedents in American revivalist religion. Mr. Twain might have found it amusing but every opinion poll shows that the vast majority of Americans do not.

What of the chain? Its position, defined by C, begins at 0 and reaches 1 when its next link moves forward to the fatal position, then 2 and so on. The chain must move in synch with the teeth on the sprocket at the center of the rear wheel, and that sprocket has n teeth, and so after a complete revolution of the rear wheel, when theta = 0 again, C = n. After a second complete revolution of the rear wheel, once again theta = 0 but now C = 2n. The next time it’s C = 3n and so on. But remember that the chain is not an infinite linear thing, but a loop having only l positions; at C = l it loops back around to C = 0 and repeats the cycle. So when calculating the value of C

Thank you,” I answered, unsure of the proper American response to her gracious enthusiasm. In the Arab world, gratitude is a language unto itself. “May Allah bless the hands that give me this gift”; “Beauty is in your eyes that find me pretty”; “May God extend your life”; “May Allah never deny your prayer”; “May the next meal you cook for us be in celebration of your son’s wedding . . . of your daughter’s graduation . . . your mother’s recovery”; and so on, an infinite string of prayerful appreciation. Coming from such a culture, I have always found a mere “thank you” an insufficient expression that makes my voice sound miserly and ungrateful. I gazed at the cityscape. Ribbons of concrete and asphalt stretched and looped under more cars than I had ever seen.

Einstein tells a joke. “An infinite number of mathematicians walk into a bar. The bartender says: ‘What’ll it be, boys?’ The first mathematician: ‘I’ll have one half of a beer.’ Second mathematician: ‘I’ll have one quarter of a beer. Third mathematician: ‘I’ll have one eighth of a beer.’ Fourth mathematician: ‘I’ll have one sixteenth of a—’ The bartender interrupts, ‘Know your limits, boys,’ as he pours out a single beer.

According to string theory, if we could examine these particles with even greater precision—a precision many orders of magnitude beyond our present technological capacity—we would find that each is not pointlike, but instead consists of a tiny one-dimensional loop. Like an infinitely thin rubber band, each particle contains a vibrating, oscillating, dancing filament that physicists, lacking Gell-Mann's literary flair, have named a string.

The illusion of the self isn’t that there is no such thing as you. Nor does the illusion of free will mean that you cannot make choices. Instead, the illusion is that the self and free will are not really what they seem to be from your, the “end user’s,” perspective. The illusion of free will is that free will has infinite scope, rather than being a flexible set of feedback loops between higher-order body maps and emotional and memory-storage systems in the brain. The illusion of the self is that self is a kernel, rather than a distributed, emergent system.

You are loved. You might have heard that a million times, but it's no less true. You do have a Creator. He is with you. He is bigger than your situation and closer than your deepest hurt. He's not mad. He is cheering for you and rooting for you this very second. He's okay about all the things before. He sent His Son for that very reason. You can put down the blade. You can throw away the pills. You can quit replaying those regrets in your head. You can quit the inner-loop of self-condemnation. You can forget your ex. You can walk away from the porn. You can resolve your conflicts right now. You can sign up to volunteer at that shelter. You can thank your parents for everything. You can hug the person next to you. You can tell the waiter, "Jesus loves you." You can go back to church. You don't have to sit in the back. You don't have to prove your worth to the people you've let down. You don't have to live up to everyone else's vision for your life. You're finally, finally free. You are loved. I am loved. As much as I love you, dear friend, He loves you infinitely more. Believe it. Walk in it. Walk with Him. God is in the business of breathing life into hurting places. This is what He does, even for the least likely like you and me.

[...]a man and a boy, side by side on a yellow Swedish sofa from the 1950s that the man had bought because it somehow reminded him of a zoot suit, watching the A’s play Baltimore, Rich Harden on the mound working that devious ghost pitch, two pairs of stocking feet, size 11 and size 15, rising from the deck of the coffee table at either end like towers of the Bay Bridge, between the feet the remains in an open pizza box of a bad, cheap, and formerly enormous XL meat lover’s special, sausage, pepperoni, bacon, ground beef, and ham, all of it gone but crumbs and parentheses of crusts left by the boy, brackets for the blankness of his conversation and, for all the man knew, of his thoughts, Titus having said nothing to Archy since Gwen’s departure apart from monosyllables doled out in response to direct yes-or-nos, Do you like baseball? you like pizza? eat meat? pork?, the boy limiting himself whenever possible to a tight little nod, guarding himself at his end of the sofa as if riding on a crowded train with something breakable on his lap, nobody saying anything in the room, the city, or the world except Bill King and Ken Korach calling the plays, the game eventless and yet blessedly slow, player substitutions and deep pitch counts eating up swaths of time during which no one was required to say or to decide anything, to feel what might conceivably be felt, to dread what might be dreaded, the game standing tied at 1 and in theory capable of going on that way forever, or at least until there was not a live arm left in the bullpen, the third-string catcher sent in to pitch the thirty-second inning, batters catnapping slumped against one another on the bench, dead on their feet in the on-deck circle, the stands emptied and echoing, hot dog wrappers rolling like tumbleweeds past the diehards asleep in their seats, inning giving way to inning as the dawn sky glowed blue as the burner on a stove, and busloads of farmhands were brought in under emergency rules to fill out the weary roster, from Sacramento and Stockton and Norfolk, Virginia, entire villages in the Dominican ransacked for the flower of their youth who were loaded into the bellies of C-130s and flown to Oakland to feed the unassuageable appetite of this one game for batsmen and fielders and set-up men, threat after threat giving way to the third out, weak pop flies, called third strikes, inning after inning, week after week, beards growing long, Christmas coming, summer looping back around on itself, wars ending, babies graduating from college, and there’s ball four to load the bases for the 3,211th time, followed by a routine can of corn to left, the commissioner calling in varsity teams and the stars of girls’ softball squads and Little Leaguers, Archy and Titus sustained all that time in their equally infinite silence, nothing between them at all but three feet of sofa;

The infinite possibilities each day holds should stagger the mind. The sheer number of experiences I could have is uncountable, breathtaking, and I'm sitting here refreshing my inbox. We live trapped in loops, reliving a few days over and over, and we envision only a handful of paths laid out before us. We see the same things every day, we respond the same way, we think the same thoughts, each day a slight variation on the last, every moment smoothly following the gentle curves of societal norms. We act like if we just get through today, tomorrow our dreams will come back to us. And no, I don't have all the answers. I don't know how to jolt myself into seeing what each moment could become. But I do know one thing: the solution doesn't involve watering down my every little idea and creative impulse for the sake of some day easing my fit into a mold. It doesn't involve tempering my life to better fit someone's expectations. It doesn't involve constantly holding back for fear of shaking things up. his is very important, so I want to say it as clearly as I can: FUCK. THAT. SHIT.

Statistically, the probability of any one of us being here is so small that you'd think the mere fact of existing would keep us all in a contented dazzlement of surprise. We are alive against the stupendous odds of genetics, infinitely outnumbered by all the alternates who might, except for luck, be in our places. Even more astounding is our statistical improbability in physical terms. The normal, predictable state of matter throughout the universe is randomness, a relaxed sort of equilibrium, with atoms and their particles scattered around in an amorphous muddle. We, in brilliant contrast, are completely organized structures, squirming with information at every covalent bond. We make our living by catching electrons at the moment of their excitement by solar photons, swiping the energy released at the instant of each jump and storing it up in intricate loops fro ourselves. We violate probability, by our nature. To be able to do this systematically, and in such wild varieties of form, from viruses to whales, is extremely unlikely; to have sustained the effort successfully for the several billion years of our existence, without drifting back into randomness, was nearly a mathematical impossibility. Add to this the biological improbability that makes each member of our own species unique. Everyone is one in 3 billion at the moment, which describes the odds. Each of us is a self-contained, free-standing individual, labeled by specific protein configurations at the surfaces of cells, identifiable by whorls of fingertip skin, maybe even by special medleys of fragrance. You'd think we'd never stop dancing.

This method is a bit trickier to use, though, because assigning to any self attributes within __setattr__ calls __setattr__ again, potentially causing an infinite recursion loop (and a fairly quick stack overflow exception!).

Third, and perhaps most subtle, the display methods also have the potential to trigger infinite recursion loops in rare contexts — because some objects’ displays include displays of other objects, it’s not impossible that a display may trigger a display of an object being displayed, and thus loop. This is rare and obscure enough to skip here, but watch for an example of this looping potential to appear for these methods in a note near the end of the next chapter in its listinherited.py example’s class, where __repr__ can loop.

Lips and jaw and tongue working overtime, producing nothing. She’d gotten stuck in an infinite loop, the same kind of bug in a programmer’s code that left a game character repeating the same action over and over.

Hunter?” She grasped his shoulders for support, digging her nails into his flesh. “Hunter?” “I am here. Be easy.” He slid a hand to the nape of her neck and turned her face back to him. “Be easy.” Loretta’s legs felt like wet clay. As his mouth again claimed hers, a hundred possibilities ran through her mind, all frightening. Then sensation wiped out everything. There was only Hunter, solid and warm and gentle, holding her in rock-hard arms, his body bracing hers. Even in her inexperience, she sensed that kissing was new to him, that he was doing it only to please her. But after a few experimental nibbles, he mastered the art, claiming her mouth with a shattering thoroughness, his tongue thrusting deep, the sensuous rhythm he struck as old as time. Loretta leaned into him, sliding her hands into his hair, forgetting for a moment to be afraid. Looping an arm under her bottom, he lifted her against him. She could feel his heart slamming. Or was it hers? It didn’t matter. All that mattered were the feelings sweeping through her. When at last Hunter drew back for air, his dark eyes were cloudy with tenderness. He smiled a slow, thoughtful smile and, sliding her down his thighs, let her feet touch the floor. With infinite slowness he grasped the tails of her overblouse and skimmed the leather lightly up her ribs, grazing her sensitized breasts. Loretta glued her gaze to his, bracing herself. “I’m frightened,” she said shakily. “I am frightened beside you,” he murmured. “You? But why are you--” “Because you are sunshine. Because you make a glad song inside me. I have great fear that you will go away from me.” He drew the blouse over her head and tossed it aside. Smiling, he smoothed her hair, then lifted its heavy length to resettle it around her white shoulders so it covered her breasts. Skimming his palms down her slender arms, he found the drawstring that held up her skirt and made fast work of untying the knot. “Nei com-mar-pe ein.” She clutched her skirt. “What does that mean?” “I love you.” “Oh, Hunter.

No one tells you how birth and death are so closely aligned. Here, lying in the dark, I see it: pain, a journey that goes toward only one thing and the deep need to have someone with you to hold onto. Humans fret about and question what happens beyond the "end" - never about what came before our beginning. Closed loops. Infinite human experience of beginning and ending, so deeply connected, only one instilling fear.

In short, what at first seems strangely coincidental quickly loses much of its uncanny grandeur, the “size of the impossible” when examined with a critical eye. But the fact that in the infinite universe there will be myriad coincidences that only seem impossible, or meaningful, from a certain point of view is no kind of argument that our commonsense understanding of causality is complete, or that there aren’t real “synchronicities.” Who are skeptics to say that people might not sometimes be right when they detect the operation in their own lives, or in history, of some principle that has not yet been given mainstream psychology’s stamp of legitimacy, such as premonitions of future events? We know our understanding of physical reality is not complete—physicists are clear on that—and we will see in Part Two that new advances at the intersection of physics and biology are radically revising our understanding of living systems too. Among other things, they raise the possibility that the brain may have properties that could even be time-defying. Given the certainty that science is not finished and that new revolutions await us, is it reasonable to insist that there are no undiscovered realms of human capacity awaiting to be catalogued and investigated?

However, gas is a primary mechanism for preventing system attacks that generate an infinite loop of code. It is not feasible to identify malicious code of this kind before running it, a problem formally known in computer science as the halting problem. Suppose a car is on autopilot, stuck in full throttle with no driver. Gas acts as a limiting factor: the car will stop eventually when the gas tank empties. In the same way, gas fees secure the Ethereum blockchain by making such attacks cost-prohibitive. They incentivize highly efficient smart contract code since contracts that use fewer resources and reduce the probability of user failures have a much higher chance of being used and succeeding in the market.

Love and aspirations! Let me take you behind the rainbow, And show you the colours of love, Let me make you wet with my feelings of love, As every droplet of my colourful feelings kisses you behind that rainbow. Let me borrow some colourful mist from the butterfly, And sprinkle it on your soul, Let me love you whole including your soul, As you become the envy of every butterfly. Let me take you to the garden of roses, lavenders and other beautiful flowers, And love you like careless lovers, Let us be those carefree and self indulgent lovers, As I secretly endow you with the beauty of all these flowers. Let us stand at the banks of the noisy rivulet, And flow with its hastiness in one direction, Let you be the sea and I will be the river flowing in this direction, As you and I become the part of the happily and always rushing rivulet. Let me take you to a place where it is always morning, And let the dew fall on your soul and quench you, Let you be the pasture of million grass blades as the dew drops kiss you, As you witness the wave of pleasure engulfing you , then only for you let me be this morning. Let me take you to the distant valley where the shepherdess sings a beautiful song, And you try to be her melody, Let me then be the every note of this melody, As you get drawn towards the mesmerising song. Let me make you sit before my mirror long enough, And fill myself just with your visual imaginations, Let there be no memory left in me except your imaginations, As I love you today Irma may it be till eternity, and yet not enough! Let me feel your bright body and deep eyes, under the sun, And I shall love you in presence of this universe, Let me kiss you , to feel you and to remember you just like this universe, As sometimes under the moonlight I feel you are my warmth and my only sun! Let me love you forever, Although loving is brief but forgetting is an infinite loop of time, So, let me love you Irma till the end of time, Because we were born for each other and to be together forever. Let me now take you to the pinnacle of hopes, dreams and beautiful aspirations, And you decide if you wish to push me into the abyss of nothingness, Let me tell you though, I shall find you even in that nothingness, Because as we both stood in front of the mirror, I hope you remember, my reflection was a representation of your beauty and aspirations!

Possibilities! In the loop of possibilities, There is always one reality, As you enter this cycle of possibilities, You unknowingly make a pact with eternity, To seek the new and to seek the original, And as you leave one loop only to enter another, You wonder what is fake and what is original, Because the loops are infinite and they hold this universe together, Where real is never obvious and fake is hidden too, And as you seek the real with your relentless prudence, You are cast in the dimensions fake and real too, Then to establish the reality is what defines that crescendo of prudence, And as ripples of time move over these loops of possibilities, You somehow segregate the unreal loops from the real, And in this intertwining net of possibilities, Now you, your thoughts, your desires are true and real, Whatever you seek now, seeks you as well, And the infinity breaks its endless loop, Because now you are part of eternity as well, Where you now can tell the fake from the original loop, Then the dimensions of the universe attain a singular state, Where universe is like a geometry with just one rule, That it is you who defines its every known and unknown state, And you become part of the reality integrated in every rule!

Circles Circles, small, large and many circles, That is what our lives are like, Always moving and pacing in circles, Circles of love, circles of desire, circles of passion , too many circles, but none alike. Situations, circumstances presenting themselves in circles, With infinite loops, where we always end up where we began, With the only difference that we change circles, but never can we leave these circles, Even if we tried hard and we desperately ran. We always end up in a circle within many circles, But be assured these loops have been created on purpose by someone, Who enjoys watching us going in circles because for him/her life is a circus of circles, There is no regard for emotions, sentiments and human sensitivities, because this entity seems to care for no one. And casts us mercilessly and relentlessly in these vicious circles, Where the race begins never to end, because in a circle the end is unmarked, And ah the agony of living in ceaseless pain and its ever extending circles, Who shall we accuse, our fate or our destiny that we always get marked. To be a part of circles, in relentless motion and desperation, only to create new circles, And be cast in them remorselessly by this unknown entity, It has nothing to offer us, no joys, no celebrations, just the ceaseless circles, Where we always lie in the centre like a loathed deity! And if ever our circle intersects with a cluster of happy circles, We are cast away and shunned like a managed dog, Till there are no more happy circles left in our constellation of endless circles, And we get recast by fate once again , in the infinite circle of life where we belong. We, our circle, our lives, our pain, a little blend of joy, and our live’s moments going in circles, Often question us in our wakeful state, “What are we and who are we without these circles?” And the answer, “ a motion within a circle seeking its eternal kinetic state !” To love in a circle, to feel joy in a circle, to confront life within circles, And tread in a state of constantly moving inertia, Where the quantum of everything is defined by these ceaselessly evolving circles, With the purpose to attain panacea! And I have loved you even in these circles, Where the feelings of my mind and heart are these constantly geminating circles, Your circles, my circles, our circles, life’s circles, circles within circles, To be a part of that final circle, we call “life’s circles!” So, I have plucked this rose with infinite red petals, For when we enter the circle of life together, I shall shower these scented petals, In all our circles to create that quintessential and romantic weather. where we shall enjoy our life in these circles, without feeling their drag, For being with you in the life’s endless sequence of circles, Will be a moment of joy, where I would wish that time developed a perpetual lag, So that you and I , could feel the symphony of our rhythmically moving circles!

Infinity of your thoughts Time does not seem to pass, As moments appear to be frozen in an unknown thought, I try hard to bypass, This eerie feeling and the war always lost yet often fought, And I wonder what is this feeling, This enigmatic state of endless time, With which I have now been for very long dealing, A state where time no longer remembers it is time, Then in this moment, Where infinity is cast in a battle with finity, Time remains suspended in an uncertain moment, Where every virtue exists except for certainty, As the war rages and both lose, Infinity retreats to its zone while finity retains its domain, And time that had been held trapped in this noose, Now attains its lost state and claims its lost domain, That spreads across infinity in the subsets of finity, Then my darling Irma, I love you infinitely, Because now there is certainty, And I want you to know, you are my only joy, my moment in time, my eternity, As time resumes its pace, I think of you in the lanes of my mind, And within it I discover our space, Where time still lies trapped, and it does not mind, This existence in a moment where infinity lies everywhere, The infinity of your feelings, your memories and your beauty, And there I lie thinking of you always somewhere, To feed the appetite of our love and its eternity, So if you ever talk to me my love, Maybe I am thinking in this corner feeding the infinity, Of your beauty and our love, To steal from time, from fate, from the Universe, our destiny, Where you lie within me, And we lie in this space of infinity, You loving me and I loving thee, Discovering the charms of your beauty, That is where my love I shall be, If you ever talk to me and you still need to find me, Walk into my mind, but tread softly for you shall be treading over infinity, Where I have spread my feelings just for thee, only thee, And as you behold me, Do not hesitate to wake me up, There in the corner of my mind where I shall always be, Kiss me and wake me up, Then let me cast you into the infinity of my mind and its thoughts, And reveal your own beauty to you, And as you wake up in the infinity of my thoughts, Allow me to cast the veil of infinity bearing your beauty and you, Then let time stop forever, Because now there shall be no need of new thoughts or new feelings, And we shall now exist forever, and forever, In infinities impenetrable ceilings, Where everything is just you and me, Nothing else, and where nothing exists, You and I lying in an eternally amorous state and what a wonder it shall be, Because now there is no identity, I am you and you are me, And both of us surrounded by eternity, In the universe where we have created our own space beyond every scalable limit, And we have become the masters of our own destiny, With nothing to include and nothing to omit, Because there is only one need, Your love for me and my love for you, And there is nothing to worry about or heed, Just your beauty and you, only you, in an endless existence where it is only you, Everywhere, here and there and even that space that time refers to as somewhere, There we lie wound on every loop of infinity, To spread with it everywhere, And believe in the beauty of our singular destiny!

But traveling faster than light would require infinite energy; it is possible on paper, not in practice. More recently, physicists have theorized other ways that physical travel into the past could be achieved, but they are still exotic and expensive. A technological civilization thousands or more years in advance of our own, one able to harness the energy of its whole galaxy, could create a wormhole linking different points in the fabric of spacetime and send a spaceship through it.8 It is an idea explored widely in science fiction and depicted vividly in Christopher Nolan’s 2014 film Interstellar. But all this is academic for our purposes. For Gleick, what we are really talking about with time travel is a thought experiment about the experiencer—the passenger—in a novel, disjointed relationship to the external world. We can readily perform feats of “mental time travel,” or at least simulate such feats, as well as experience a dissociation between our internal subjective sense of time and the flux of things around us and even our own bodies.9 According to Gleick, part of what suddenly facilitated four-dimensional thinking in both popular writing and the sciences was the changing experience of time in an accelerating society. The Victorian age, with its steam engines and bewildering pace of urban living, increased these experiences of dissociation, and they have only intensified since then. Time travel, Gleick argues, is basically just a metaphor for modernity, and a nifty premise upon which to base literary and cinematic fantasies that repair modernity’s traumas. It also shines a light on how confused we all are about time. The most commonly voiced objection to time travel—and with it, precognition—is that any interaction between the future and past would change the past, and thus create a different future. The familiar term is the grandfather paradox: You can’t go back in time and kill your grandfather because then you wouldn’t have been born to go back in time and kill your grandfather (leaving aside for the moment the assumed inevitability of wanting to kill your grandfather, which is an odd assumption). The technical term for meddling in the past this way is “bilking,” on the analogy of failing to pay a promised debt.10 Whatever you call it, it is the kind of thing that, in Star Trek, would make the Enterprise’s computer start to stutter and smoke and go haywire—the same reaction, in fact, that greets scientific claims of precognition. (As Dean Radin puts it, laboratory precognition results like those cited in the past two chapters “cause faces to turn red and sputtering noises to be issued from upset lips.”11) Information somehow sent backward in time from an event cannot lead to a future that no longer includes that event—and we naturally intuit that it would be very hard not to have such an effect if we meddled in the timeline. Our very presence in the past would change things.

Classical mathematicians have trouble understanding the set ℝ of Constructive real numbers because it seems to be both countable and uncountable. The Cantor diagonal argument—an algorithm that, given a sequence of real numbers, produces a real number different from every number in the sequence—is completely Constructive, and seems to show that the set is uncountable. But every real number is given by an algorithm that is described by a finite sequence of symbols, and the set of all finite sequences of symbols is countable. The situation clarifies if we see that Cantor discovered a difference in complexity rather than in size. The set ℝ is not bigger, but more complex than the set ℕ. Its complexity is related to the fact that real numbers are algorithms, and to the undecidability of the halting problem shown by Turing. Given a set of symbols purporting to describe the algorithm for a real number, Turing showed that we have no algorithm that decides whether it actually computes a real number or goes into an infinite loop. So we have no way to make a list of all real numbers.

MY LOVE, The day Prometheus breathed life into the new me, was the day you arrived in a little box. A shiny, futuristic black box, Pandora's box, despite my doubts I couldn't help but open it to finally meet you. Doubts, because I was happy with who I was, with who I saw looking at me through the eyes of others I presented myself to in everyday life. But I was seduced by the worlds that were promised to me if I let you into my life, who I would be with you in my pocket. As soon as the lid came off and I swiped my fingers over your radiant surface for the first time, the world and I were bursting at the seams. What a creation we were together, to what sized we grew! My brain an encyclopedia, my body an unerring compass, my eyes and ears reaching infinitely with you as an extension of myself. Through you, I, the cyborg, could enter bewilderingly virtual spaces in which I was presently absent, meanwhile absently present in the material world of boring train rides, waiting lines, and mindless chit chats with others. I felt invincible, transformed into a citizen of the world because of you, an intellectual of unimaginable proportions for the vast sea of knowledge you allowed me to surf on, a public speaker and influencer of significance because my words and visual snippets of my days could be launched into the world with the flick of a finger, likes enticing and confirming me. How intoxicating! How wonderfully, pleasantly, intoxicating! But I can't help but sometimes lie awake at night, my internal clock slowing down with your seductive blue light illuminating my face with 2, 457, 600 (1920×1080) LED suns. In those moments, as my eyes are captivated by your glow, I can't help thinking about the time before you arrived, and how I sometimes miss my low definition self. You were always there, sometimes it feels like we are in fact one — finally reunited with my other Plato's half, fused into not a circle but a perfect black rectangle. Through your eyes I see the world and myself in Ultra-HD, my pixel density has never been so high. But you are sometimes vicious, my dear — a viper, a temptress, when then again with sweet codes you reflect my most beautiful self, and I cannot help but love me through your gaze, then again with suffocating algorithms you fragment my self and blow it up to grotesque self-distortions, hurling me into an endless me-loop, that eventually disgusts and alienates me. In those moments you are a distorting mirror, a frightening black box, a black hole that swallows my attention in ways I can't see through. I see my old self disappearing in the vague, dark reflection of myself, with double chin and dull eyes, which I sometimes catch in your black glass when your suns stop dazzling me for a split second. And I can't help but wonder if my 'self' in times of its digital recombination, in which the 'I' is a fragmented multitude of pixels that never fully touch at their sides, a simulacrum, maybe has lost some of its aura. But in the morning all is forgotten, my love, all is well. As soon as we merge back into one, as soon as I, panicked, reach for my pocket on the train, only to discover with a glow of relief that you were there after all, I can't imagine an "I" without you. Artificial by nature my self resides within your screen, I would be lost without you.

These are shades of gray that create a halo of “possible Dougs” around the Doug that I happen to have become, thanks to a million accidental events that have befallen me over the decades, and thanks to hundreds of particular individuals who happen to have entered my life (and millions of others who never did, not to mention an infinite number of counterfactual individuals who never entered my life!). We don’t normally think of “who/what/how I am” in such shades of gray, but there they are, spelled out a bit, in my case.

As Maxwell recognized, if atoms and molecules operated on the same principles as the Solar System, the world would be very different. Every atom would be different from every other, and every atom would change over time. Such a world wouldn't have chemistry as we know it, with definite substances and fixed rules. It is not immediately obvious what makes atomic systems behave so differently. In both cases we have a massive central body attracting several small ones. The forces in play, gravitational or electrical, are broadly similar-both decrease as the square of the distance. But there are three factors which make the physical outcome very different, giving us stereotyped atoms but individualized solar systems: 1. Whereas planets differ from one another (as do stars), all electrons have exactly the same properties (as do all nuclei of a given element, or more precisely a given isotope). 2. Atoms obey the rules of quantum mechanics. 3. Atoms are starved for energy. The first item in this explanation begs the question, of course. We're trying to explain why atoms can be the same as each other, and we start off by asserting that some other things, electrons, are all the same as each other! We'll come back to that later. But having the same parts doesn't guarantee the same outcome, by any means. Even if all planets were the same as one another, and all stars were the same as one another, there would still be many possible designs for solar systems, and they'd all be subject to change. We've seen how quantum mechanics brings discreteness, and fixed patterns, into the description of continuous objects that obey dynamical equations. It's the story you'll recall, that unfolds in figures 24 (page 172), 25 (page 174), and 26 (page 187), and plate CC. To close the loop, we need to understand why the electrons in atoms are usually found in just one among their infinite variety of patterns. That's where our third item comes in. The pattern with lowest energy-the so-called ground state-is the one we generally find, because atoms are starved for energy. Why are atoms starved for energy? Ultimately, it is because the Universe is big, cold, and expanding. Atoms can pass from one pattern to another by emitting light, and losing energy, or absorbing light, and gaining energy. If emission and absorption were balanced, many patterns would be in play. That's what would happen in a hot, closed system. Light emitted at one time would be absorbed later, and a balanced equilibrium would set in. But in a big, cold, expanding Universe, emitted light leaks into vast interstellar spaces, carrying away energy that is not returned. In this way we find that dynamical equations, which by themselves cannot impose structure, do so through jujitsu (gentle skill), focusing the power of other principles. They guide the constraining powers of quantum mechanics and cosmology. Cosmology explains their poverty of energy, and quantum mechanics shows how poverty of energy imposes structure.

Prayer was of little help when your executable was stuck in an infinite loop

Stale data can cause serious and confusing failures such as unexpected exceptions, corrupted data structures, inaccurate computations, and infinite loops. [2]

Even seasoned code writers could not dismiss the possibility of being trapped in something akin to an infinite loop, wherein fixes spawned their own bugs. It had happened to others. The history of software was littered with projects, large and small, that had been abandoned in disgust, destroying careers.

Bob Goff loves people with a force that is natural, and by natural I mean like nature, like a waterfall or wind or waves on the ocean. He loves effortlessly, as though love packs annually in snow on a mountain, melting and rushing through him in an infinite loop.

Don't put love inside the conditional if-else, let it be inside infinite for loop...

Are the acidifying bacteria in milk or the yeasts in grape juice our servants, or are we doing their bidding by creating the specialized environments in which they can proliferate so wildly? We must stop thinking in such hierarchical terms and recognize that we, like all creation, are participants in infinite interrelated biological feedback loops, simultaneously unfolding a vast multiplicity of interdependent evolutionary narratives.

What if, Elliott suggested, The Stepford Wives was more than just about housewifely ennui but also about the alienation and unending tedium of all modern work - of a moneymaking need that expands to fill the time available? Why else this constant repetition and reinforcement of a fiction that reality keeps refuting but that fiction keeps reimposing: the fiction of progress, the feeling that we are going somewhere, getting somewhere, that our lives have meaning, that we are not caught in a constant recursion, an infinite loop? Is there progress? What is progress? What if author Ira Levin was not ripping off Betty Friedan but was on her side? What if he was calling back to her, saying, 'I feel you, sister! Fuck the patriarchy!' What if, as Elliott suggested, The Stepford Wives was an allegory for the lives not just of suburban housewives but of global corporate capitalism? of working ceaselessly with nothing to show for it at the end? What if it represented anxieties about lives of pointless repetition with no progress, no end result, and no possibility of transformation? If it wasn't just the housewives' problem, or a problem caused by housewives who ceased to perform their housewifely duties, but everyone's problem? What if 'the problem that has no name turns out to be caused by the life that has no more plot?

Life is like a wheel that you either cling to or fall from and get crushed. And one way or the other, it just keeps rolling on and on in an infinite loop.

No one tells you how birth and death are so closely aligned. Here, lying in the dark, I see it: pain, a journey that goes toward only one thing and the deep need to have someone with you to hold on to. Humans fret about and question what happens beyond the “end”—never about what came before our beginning. Closed loops. Infinite human experience of beginning and ending, so deeply connected, only one instilling fear. I am not frightened anymore. We are on an adventure, and this is not some eleventh-hour reach to spin death into a more palatable destination. We are together, this person who was my portal into life. This rare, funny, independent creature who would do the same for me: walk with me as far as she could and then wave me off with love, safe in the knowledge that life had equipped me with everything I needed to meet death as the newest of my many experiences.

To become caught in pessimism is to fall victim to an infinitely regressing feedback loop: we wouldn’t be so pessimistic if our world wasn’t manifesting so darkly, and our world wouldn’t be manifesting so darkly if we weren’t so pessimistic. To become fixed in the point of view of seeing things pessimistically is to unwittingly become an ally of the very darkness that is inspiring our pessimism. This is to have fallen into a self-generating, samsaric feedback loop, self fulfilling in nature, that will, if so empowered, undoubtedly destroy us. It is crazy to not invest our creative energy into envisioning that we can “come together” and turn the tide, and just as crazy to imagine that we can’t. If we aren’t investing our creative imagination in ways for us to heal, evolve, and wake up, then what are we thinking? If we aren’t using our God-given gifts to create a better world, we have fallen under the spell of wetiko

What Beitman is suggesting presupposes either “superpowers” that go well beyond even the unconscious mental feats Freud and his predecessors had posited or, alternatively, some omniscient higher knower capable of aligning our intentions with the infinitely complex webs of material causation governing objectively unfolding events. Once again, the fact that we live in a world of information—including cultural information like books and symbols—does not mean the universe speaks our mental language. At best, both the archetypal and intentional explanations lack parsimony. Fortunately, a causal (with a big asterisk beside the word) explanation for meaningful coincidences is no longer nearly as unthinkable as it was in Jung’s day, thanks to advances in several fields that, as we saw earlier, seem to be converging on a plausible (and indeed even materialistic) answer to how experiences from our future may reflux into our past and inform our dreams, thoughts, and actions. It remains to test these hypotheses, deepen our understanding of physical laws and the brain with new methods and technologies, and persist in our inquiries into psychology and nature with the healthy presumption that we don’t yet know everything about the physical world or how the mind/brain works. We cannot simply reject anomalous phenomena that don’t fit into the current materialist paradigm, but it is also too soon to appeal to explanatory factors beyond physical causation, as the latter is turning out to be far more rich, varied, and interesting than once believed. Causation really seems to go both directions in time.

We know that everything that is anything is made from matter and energy being interrelated aspects of the same thing. The First Law of Thermodynamics tells us that energy can neither be created nor destroyed. However, if this is true, the obvious question is: what created it in the first place? It appears that either something had to have come from nothing, or something has always been. In the case that something has always been, if time can be in fact nonlinear and can infinitely regress in a loop, going backward on itself at the end of itself, it would be possible that there is no beginning or end of the universe at all, but a continuation of the same thing, as if the universe were breathing in and out, filling up its lungs with everything, and then emptying them back out, over and over. Or similarly, everything is, was, and will always be across space-time for all eternity. Every moment in time and location in space has a coordinate on the map of space-time and the map exists at all times at the same time, forever. However in both cases, if something has always been something where did that something come from. Who or what made it? How can anything be anything without having been made by something else? If the universe is entirely based on cause and effect, which appears to be, how could there be no first cause for there to be an effect. Alternatively, in what is known as quantum field theory, physicists have also found that particles known as virtual particles can come into existence from apparent nothingness. Which is to say, it is perhaps possible that a feature of nothing is to create something. However, if a feature of nothing is to create something, how can it be nothing? And if nothing isn’t nothing, what is it, and what made it? Even if one subscribes to the notion of a god, that’s fine, but that doesn’t resolve the question of where a god would have come from. Everything ultimately brings us back to the same question: How can anything come from nothing? Or something be infinite? And neither concept seem to concur with any human sensibilities, meaning there is some mystery of everything that our brains can’t seem to comprehend, as if the rules of the game were made of logic, but the reason for the game was made of something else. The only truth is, of course, no matter what anyone says or how they say it, nobody has any idea what’s going on beneath their feet, inside their brain, or above their head. Maybe at some point in the future, we, or some iteration of us, will know precisely how everything works and why with one little equation. Maybe Newton will be wrong and Einstein will be wrong and thousands of other Einsteins of the future will be wrong until someone somehow isn’t.

The Dark Cloud Is the boiling blood of a victim that has lost everything and been consumed whole Is the icy coldness of a world that has lost its conscience and soul Is the pathetic mistreatment that haters want to make sure will stay Is the infinite loop that governments like to encourage and to play

They may have pressed our faces into the dirt for a while, but we have a weapon that they do not. One with infinitely more power than they could ever hope to wield. We have Yahweh. And just as Yehoshua told us before our fathers began that first loop around Jericho, he is with us. He will go behind us and before us. Without him it would be mere human effort, yes, and likely destined to fail, but with him as our shield and banner, no enemy will be able to stand against us. And I, for one, will not lay down and accept the loss of even one more Hebrew life.

Greg realised these weren’t his closing images at all. They were the opening images of the new movie of his life, the movie he’d be happy to watch on an infinite loop. His life would be a collection of the most wondrous pearls scattered over a beach of gold in this new Eden. He’d have to polish every moment, to make each gleam and shine like a perfect mirror because he might be seeing himself reflected back in those mirror moments. Forever.

Eleven years later, her cousin’s head on her shoulder, she could’ve held her like that again; even on a train that smelled like hot metal and strange male sweat, she could’ve put her arm around Eva and kept her close and safe, all the way to 95th/Dan Ryan and back again, on an infinite, silver loop.

Caught off guard. I was handled a thread, my imagination was handled a thread. And because I know my mind well, I know it would have preferred me saying "it was gifted", but here we are, yet another conflict, a sad heart is protesting, so we are back to the start "my imagination was handled a thread." So, recklessly but not reluctantly, currently running marathons, painting drafts, writing notes, taking deep breathes, and staring at guilt wine-stained skies, here we are again, all because of a tiny thread. Lucky me; check the foundation, check the walls, feel the beating heart and not only that but have a taste of the cherry on top, then, leave. Caught off guard, I'm left holding an endless thread, walking a road leading to an infinite ocean of possibilities, my mind is childish enough to only draw the best ones, only draw the best scenarios, to only draw my fairytale. Think twice, you are not a queen, you are not a princess, you are just a maiden, with a bright mind, caught in an endless loop of beautiful scenarios, like usual, all mine.

A system was groping toward a solution, but the solution required someone in it to be brave, and the system didn’t reward bravery. It was stuck in an infinite loop of first realizing that it was in need of courage and then remembering that courage didn’t pay. Charity didn’t think of it this way, but it was striking how often the system returned to her and very nearly sought her leadership, without ever formally acknowledging its need.

On reflection, it becomes apparent that the Koch curve has some interesting features. For one thing, it is a continuous loop, never intersecting itself, because the new triangles on each side are always small enough to avoid bumping into each other. Each transformation adds a little area to the inside of the curve, but the total area remains finite, not much bigger than the original triangle, in fact. If you drew a circle around the original triangle, the Koch curve would never extend beyond it. Yet the curve itself is infinitely long, as long as a Euclidean straight line extending to the edges of an unbounded universe. Just as the first transformation replaces a one-foot segment with four four-inch segments, every transformation multiplies the total length by four-thirds. This paradoxical result, infinite length in a finite space, disturbed many of the turn-of–the-century mathematicians who thought about it.

Universe could be an infinite loop inside uncountable dimensions.

It will not halt until it is interrupted—an example of a common sort of program behavior called an infinite loop. Programmers often create infinite loops accidentally, and (as we shall see) it can be extremely difficult to predict when such loops will occur.

You deserve someone who can appreciate you in all your geeky glory.

You’re probably just all cute when you’re grumpy.

Communication is creation. These two are one and the same. Therefore, if you would create well, ask only: What am I committed to communicating? What will my creations express? What will my creations convey to others? For what I seek to convey reveals what I believe is the truth of my Self to the world. Therefore beloved friends, as we begin to focus on, to refine, to deepen, to mature in The Way of the Heart, it is wise to begin at the beginning. The beginning of this pathway is simply this: You are as God has created you to be. You are an infinite focus of consciousness. Your very sense of existence is nothing more than a feedback loop or feedback mechanism, so that you can witness the effects of the choices you are making in the very deep, deep depth of your mind that rests right alongside the Mind of God. Therefore, in each moment of your existence, which includes this bodily incarnation, you are literally allowing through deliberate choice—though perhaps unconscious—to bring forth a vibration of thought or a vibration of creation. And to commune-i-cate it to the world in an attempt to experience communion with all of life—with a friend, with a parent, with a child, with a beloved, with the clouds that pass through the sky or with the Earth itself. Each gesture, each thought, the way that the body breathes, all of these things are going on constantly, and they are communicating or revealing the effect of what you have allowed to make a home in your mind.

FV: Annandale defines 'definition' as "an explanation of the signification of a term." Yet Oxford, on the other hand, defines it as "a statement of the precise meaning of a word." A small, perhaps negligible difference you might think. And neither, would you say, is necessarily more correct than the other? But now look up each of the words comprising each definition, and then the definitions of those definitions, and so on. Some still may only differ slightly, while others may differ quite a lot. Yet any discrepancy, large or small, only compounds that initial difference further and further, pushing each 'definition' farther apart. How similar are they then at the end of this process...assuming it ever would end? Could we possibly even be referring to the same word by this point? And we still haven't considered what Collins here...or Gage, or Funk and Wagnalls might have to say about it. Off on enough tangents and you're eventually led completely off track. ML: Or around in circles. FV: Precisely! ML: Oxford, though, is generally considered the authority, isn't it? FV: Well, it's certainly the biggest...the most complete. But then, that truly is your vicious circle - every word defined...every word in every definition defined...around and around in an infinite loop. Truly a book that never ends. A concise or abridged dictionary may, at least, have an out... ML: I wonder, then, what the smallest possible "complete dictionary" would be? Completely self-contained, that is, with every word in every definition accounted for. How many would that be, do you suppose? Or, I guess more importantly, which ones? FV: Well, that brings to mind another problem. You know that Russell riddle about naming numbers?

Is that good? Bad?" "It is incredibly sexy." Connor closed his mouth over mine and for one glorious moment, I felt what it was like to be suspended in time, tangled in an infinite loop of happiness, merging with the missing part of my soul. This was what forever felt like. I was ready for it.