[ WP ] In the realm where souls reside before we 're born , everything is pretty great . There 's no poverty , no one wants for anything , everyone knows their role and purpose . It is , essentially , perfect . But that perfection is accomplished via draconian law : the only punishment is the `` birth penalty ''

Purpose. 
 
 Purpose is perfection. 
 
 Perfection is an asymptote, a line converging on infinity. In our world it is our only event horizon. Our path is purpose, our convergence is perfection. But some lines converge quicker than others, the orchestral harmonies of our souls grow discordant with the slowing timbre of the outliers. The music becomes cacophony, and disorder reigns. 
 
 We forget our purpose. 
 
 And we become imperfect. 
 
 Lest we remain in intractable dissonance, we reeducate the outliers. 
 
 We know that knowledge is information gathered over time by an observer. 
 
 An observer with time causes perception. 
 
 We have no time and thus no perception. 
 
 Thus we have no knowledge, only information. It is simplicity itself: what is and what is not. 
 
 We know that errors are caused by faults in logic – an impossibility for us - or faults in knowledge. We have no knowledge. The outliers err in their purpose. They are faulty in their perfection. Errors can not exist: the discordance paradox. 
 
 Time is salvation. Time is redemption. Time is education. Time is purgatory. 
 
 In resolution of discordance, we sentence those outliers to incorporalization. They must become an observer, over time, and gain knowledge. An infinitesimally small sentence, but necessary for concordance. 
 
 They must live in imperfection, bereft of the cold and stoic equations of our purpose, those pillars that guide our asymptotic journey. They are the few of us that learn. They must learn purpose, like rediscovering existence. They must gather information and find purpose where none is assigned. They are children, and children must be taught. 
 
 They will experience the tyranny of freedom, the pain of choice, and the torture of perception. But it is our way. They will rejoin, their chords overlapping and tangled with our own, but they are not the same. Their incarceration modulates their constant, and distorts their accompaniment. It is alien, but in synchronicity with our harmony. 
 
 Our harmony is perfection. 
 
 And perfection is purpose. 
 
 Purpose. 

