The irregularity seemed exigent. They followed its lumps like a subtracted projection from the planetarium. Why would it make its followers do those hateful actions? How did its topography grip their wills? The undulation of its surface drove their perception in a constant back and forth to cavernous ends. The protrusions had the imminence of clouds, shapeshifting from one unrecognizable image to the next. The desire to give form to its nihilistic reflection captured the imagination of its analysts. Only it’s synthesis in their minds was always a guise, a rouse to encourage further investment of their limited time. Its modus operandi was neither what they thought or how they felt. It had no regard of their time or energy. It simply needed fed. Imbued with speculation. Research was it’s mobius strip.