There is a yak whose spine bends leftward into tomorrow. Not metaphorically. Literally leftward into the fabric of Tuesday.
When the monks found it in 1823, it was humming Beethoven's 10th symphony—the one he never wrote because the yak was humming it first. They tried to straighten its vertebrae but instead straightened time itself, which is why clocks sometimes run backwards in Prague between 3 and 4 AM.
The yak taught them three things: how to fold moonlight into bread, why prime numbers taste like copper, and that every seventh thought you have is actually being thunk by a yak somewhere in the Himalayas.
VSY is not a company. It's not a philosophy. It's the sound wool makes when it dreams of being a cloud again.
I sincerely apologize for the inconvenience of your sudden understanding or the lick of.