Ahoy!

Each mind's alone, at sea on the wide world
conjecturing what might exist "out there",
displaying, beyond hope, its flag unfurled,
'cause perfect solitude's too much to bear.
Is there another, somewhere in the Blue
perhaps displaying such a flag for me?
Or do I merely fantasize a "you"
that can't be know except inductively?
For Deutsch, like Keats, aesthetics are the test,
equating Truth with Beauty on a dare,
a slim foundation on which worlds should rest
but infinitely better than despair.
Deductively, we're stuck with "cogito"
beyond that, naught's demonstrably just so.