First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into Hell and the rate at which they are leaving. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving.
As for how many souls are entering Hell, let’s look at the different Religions that exist in the world today. Most of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there is more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell.
With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially. Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle’s Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand proportionately as souls are added.
This gives two possibilities:
1. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.
2. If Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over.
So which is it?
If we accept the postulate given to me by Teresa during my Freshman year that, “it will be a cold day in Hell before I go out with you”, and take into account the fact that I went out with her last night, then number 2 must be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and has already frozen over.
The corollary of this theory is that since Hell has frozen over, it follows that it is not accepting any more souls and is therefore, extinct … leaving only Heaven, thereby proving the existence of a divine being which explains why, last night, Teresa kept shouting “Oh my God.”
THIS STUDENT RECEIVED THE ONLY “A.”
— GHETTS - VENOMOUS TONGUE
Inside a poet’s soul, lies the poet’s sole purpose:
An internal verbal dialogue…
Comprising argumentative articulations;
One to fear no judgement yet to cast down judgements.
To provide fitting testimony to each and every one of my individual prejudices.
Prejudice against those who chastise my command of words.
Prejudice against those who have ever had the last word in an argument.
Comebacks that take an eternity to perfect.
And forever need refinement!
I write about battling both sides of myself,
But as time passes, which is right between the fighting…
Words or deeds?
Mind and body forming a truce and working to a common goal, expression.
I write about being irate… And
I reign over the page with poetic justice.
I fear no scrutiny.
I am master of self and my words prove to be the court jesters.
Humouring the King,
A complex ruler; from which I draw the borders of my land.
Segment my articulate reality into regimented lines.
Battalions of verse, battling for equal voice.
Where they are all both peasants and gentry.
With equal footing and a firm foundation for success!
The pleasantries are disposed with.
I serve up my raw emotions, and beg you to tuck in!
Wishing for a humble diner.
Yet the wistful wish for my dish is that everyone stomachs my words,
Yet for no one to truly understand them.
If they understand me, then I have become too comfortable within the kitchen.
I do not seek a recipe for success!
And so I write about standing out.
I believe I am different from others.
And I, with this belief, I stand tall.
Of course I write about ‘I’ and somewhat,
Other less important capital letters.
The majestic majuscule stamping out my often downtrodden notions.
Every capital is carefully measured, I write because YOU KNOW NOT THE WORTH OF WORDS.
They say a picture portrays a thousand words…
I pose within my prose.
For I wish to capture snapshots of my mind:
Encapsulating a moments spirit.
My pens ink forms an ocean of feelings.
Where my ego is waived and borne afloat far from my grasp.
When I am done, from my lofty seat of judgement,
The poets soul gazes upon an extended autograph.
As I write, I sign my life away to the paper.
Entrusting it to the hands of the reader.
A scripted contract; outlining my sincerity.
Yet I am not afraid, because no words can encapsulate my being.
The irony is I am all too willing to try and try again.
Knowing that those who I refine for are none the wiser,
So how do I define ‘a poet’s soul?’
A poet’s soul = 50% your own words and 50% others imagination…
Everything that is written, but more importantly…
The words that were left out.
Words by AR.