That’s what we should want to know.
Why does what we count come chunked—
Is it them or is it us?
If us, how could it be us?
Are we that weird in the world
We can see ghosts that aren’t there
That weren’t but for how we count?
Are we that rare and that strong
To be what’s not but for us?
And if the bits, bobs, and bumps
Are out there, real in some sense,
Not just tricks thoughts play on us,
Tricks of waves, tricks of the light,
Then what is a quant, a thing,
Where is its edge of it is?
