Suicide is a mission.

The kamikaze. The human bomb. The Charge of the Light Brigade. And the sentiments immortalized by Tennyson.

When can their glory fade?

O the wild charge they made!

All the world wonder’d.

Honour the charge they made!

Honour the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred!

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With the quadrilateral of being that means in mind it is now easy to picture the shape shattering or bursting open or collapsing or decaying or dissolving or never truly forming to begin. The shape of human being that never truly takes shape. Or human life truly taking on horror and suffering on all sides as its very shape. Life breaks you, says the short-story teller, if it does not pulverize you first. Or the middle way of human being and becoming merely drifting along a current of inconsequence amounting only to muffled slow drowning only you just don’t die. Now being is no longer quadrillangulated meaning stories of a better tomorrow with their promises and sacred truths ring hollow and become obscene where being human now inhabits this truth and this truth now inhabits human being. This is the anti-quadrillangulation or the contra-quadrillangulation — there is some debate — of human being. Thus aporia and thus the wince.