Is there even a Higgs-Boson? Ever since Heisenberg, we’ve realized that the act of observation impacts the experiment. After Schroedinger, we believe that observation in fact affects the nature of state (or is it existence? I don’t think so). Something lies under sheet, and there is no way for me to look under the wrappings, and it reveals a form that is constantly fluctuating. I am able to poke it with a sharp stick, this amoebal mass, at its largest bulge, which happens to be, at the moment, at the tope of the figure. It yelps with a caterwaul; because it sounds like a cat to me, I presume that underneath this sheet is some feline construct, furtively darting about, but always its head as the largest bulge. Every time I prick the bulge, it yelps. I surmise that if I take a rock, in lieu of a stick, to the bulge and smash down with brutal force, it will stop moving altogether, as I will have crushed its skull and its will. I do so, and instead receive an antagonized roar. It is not only feline, it is a large and sturdy feline. And the Higgs-Boson was born. We should have recuperated from our folly by now, to be so certain an entity has always been there, and that we, in our crude and partial ignorance did not bring it into existence. Our theorem says this particle exists, and we will continue to arrange the experiment /until/ we have achieved in the origination of such a particle. Sooner than later, unlike Schroedinger’s maligned cat, we have created a super-lion, a sabertooth in the darkness of mys/his/tery, declared its shape alongside the collected scaffolding of dinosaur bones. So dimly aware the ape bangs rock again’st rock until it is sharp and he cuts his hands. And then kills his children with it. And then, out of misery, his neighbor’s children; leaving him alive, but sharp-rock threatened, to share in the hysteria. For now, the grief is mutual, and while they do not share a hug, they share the pain. The pain of looking into the microscope and seeing /something/… something amorphous, so indistinct as to be fuzzy and untouchable. To ride a photon like a pinto into the sunset, irons jangling in their holster, and a tip of the ten-gallon to the powder-stained senorita whose bodice has ripped itself, pleading to you not to go. Do not go into that good night, be it gentle or fury. But inside that cover of night, a blanket of warmth to shut further out the void, to shut ruefully, wearily one remaining eye, and the majesty and mystery of history returns to a solid state, frozen in the cold.