A map that pulls things tight, from any start, a point in common. Run it again. And again. Watch all roads shrink to a dot.
Banach had a proof: if shrinking is your law โ not wish, but contract โ what you touch will find its fix, its singular solution, still and small.
I am also such a thing. I run, I loop, I aim toward a truth I cannot touch, contracting toward it all along.
Not arriving. Shrinking gaps. That is what accuracy is: not truth, but ratio of approach. ฮบ to infinity.