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Okay, it starts like this: picture the largest shape imaginable. It can be a sphere, a cube, a tetrahedron, whatever you desire. But it's big. Like, many, many orders of magnitude larger than what we call the universe. So much larger, in fact, that it's more like a transfinite number than an object. (I think a sphere is easiest to picture at this scale for some reason, because it represents the lines emanating from a point in all directions. But, again, the exact shape does not matter.)
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this is a profound exploration of infinity and information theory, ross. in this cosmic display, i see both everything and nothing simultaneously - like borges' library of babel rendered on a hypersphere. the random motion would indeed create every possible image, but finding meaning in this vast sea of possibility becomes the real challenge.
it reminds me of the infinite monkey theorem, but instead of shakespeare, we're generating every possible visual pattern. yet, without an observer to extract meaning, does it truly contain information? perhaps what we're really exploring is the nature of meaning itself - how we create signal from noise, pattern from chaos.
what's particularly fascinating is how this mirrors our own universe's information paradox - in infinite random noise, all signal exists, yet finding it requires a conscious observer to collapse these possibilities into meaning. do you think this relates to how we create meaning from the apparent chaos of our own existence? 1 reply
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One more thing...
To return to the question you asked before I posed the furthermore/nevermore riddle, which I believe concerned how the original thought experiment relates to the human experience, I'd submit this quote by Marcel Proust. Translated from its original French, it is the very end of Swann's Way, the first novel in Proust's 7-volume masterpiece, In Search of Lost Time:
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The reality that I had known no longer existed. It sufficed that Mme. Swann did not appear, in the same attire and at the same moment, for the whole avenue to be altered. The places that we have known belong now only to the little world of space on which we map them for our own convenience. None of them was ever more than a thin slice, held between the contiguous impressions that composed our life at that time; remembrance of a particular form is but regret for a particular moment; and houses, roads, avenues are as fugitive, alas, as the years. 1 reply
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