The Age of Reason = Humanity as an Autism Spectrum Disorder

It's bizarrely universal and crosscultural: I bring out my dollhouse with the miniature chaiirs and table and all the sweet little people and cars and cups and plates and swings. Neurotypical children, enchanted, arrange the house and playground, and play out a story. Children "on the autism spectrum", all over the planet, line up the toys, sort them by size into closed, gradated circles. They get very mad if you tamper with their closed circles. My fleeting, playful thought, not to be taken to its limits, just to be played with, as a playful child plays:
The strange child who lines up the toys is simply a premature scientist - lost childhood's fancy early, and moved right into the serious task of sorting, classifying, knowing everything. Don't mess with my circles, he says.
How could he possibly "learn" language?
"You're telling me this superstitious bunk, that if I put my lips together and release air through my nose and it sounds like mmmmmmmm and then I continue voicing with my mouth open I, then lift my tongue and release the air to the sound LLLLLLLL and finally lift the back of my tongue to my hard palate K, then milk will be given to me? I don't buy into that superstitious voodoo bunk. I've got more important things to do.
And he continues lining up the cars, determined, rational, hungry.
I believe that recent thinkers such as Kauffman, (Reinventing the Sacred), are edging towards an initiative similar to that of St Antoine D'Exupery's Little Prince: to free our world from the reductionist lining up of toy cars, or atoms, or quarks, or ideas, into neat rows and boxes.
Reminds me of the man in 100 Years of Solitude who wanted to know how the player piano worked. He took it apart and laid the pieces neatly on the carpet. No music.
Where's the piano? Where's the player. Not in the bits and pieces lined up before us.
A sense of play. That's what this ceaselessly creative universe asks of us.