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Lovelock says science is never certain or exact. The best we can ever do is express our knowledge in terms of probability. We’re probably fucked,

 

but preciser unpleasantries often serve to distract us from the fact of it: utility bills, inadequate storage. Lovelock says science is never certain or exact,

 

but only pretends to be, like I’ll pretend to connect deeply with people to nudge risk of personal damage from the realm of probability. It’s probably fucked

 

up, but I like it: in the evening air, we construct our panic room made of fellow feeling, a shark cage love locks. Say science is never certain or exact,

 

and Science says: Baby, I don’t have to be. Cause and effect alone can’t account for what sick things emerge from the goo of probability. You’re too beyond fucked

 

at this point to reverse it, but get one thing correct: I couldn’t have done it without you, or your language. Lovelock says science is never certain or exact, but like the rat in its laboratory, we’re at where we’re at.