And this is where the external word takes its toll on the structure of everything. It does not take long, although his circumvention of destiny will: let us time it … start. ing. NOW!

Explosions! [of the choreographed sort]

Fanfare! [a clarion, a trumpet, a flag, and a stool. Kill the beast! Slay the dragon!]

Monsters&aliens&zombies! [come pouring out of the pinhole of our expectations]

They creep across the floor—they gnaw on the flesh of our thoughts.

—Again! A paradox!

—Who ordered the paradox?

—Um … excuse me, sir, but—ah … I believe that what you are holding is … um—an incarnation.

—Oh. Dear. My. You’re, you’re … quite right.

—Why?

Once his first foot falls softly upon the rock, we are at ??:??:?? until the time of his. Um. Something. Yet, when those last frail numerals flip into nonexistence—when they transform into the Zero, the pinnacle of oblivion, more so than the null: we do not speak of the absurdities of a 1/0, for we wish no nonsense within ourselves. We want fact! Pound! We want Truth! Pound! Pound! We want a bigger gavel! Pound! Pound! Pound! We want! Pound! Pound! Pound! Pound! Pound! Ugh, prime numbers are such a bore: barely holding any sort of significance within their unevenly divisible clutches. Ooh, we’re unique. Divide us not by anything but ourselves and the Unit, for we will be scattered amongst the Cartesian plane. Only by themselves and the Unit? Perhaps this is … this is … holiness? Yes! The others are mere pawns in the infinite set of mathematics. It is through the prime that we find Justice. Pythagoras! Plato!

Don’t complain. Dawdling is a necessary component here. There are too many things to see—too many objects of our affection. We must do this detail by detail. There is no way around it. It’s not too much to be self-conscious about being self-conscious, is it? Will this force us into attaching an infinite amount of metas onto our words? What hast thou wrought? Here here here here here here! How to handle this without the obligatory boredom? Mundane details are interesting! If history teaches us anything (which it doesn’t), then yes: therefore, no. Ha! Tweedledum (or Tweedledee?) was correct! A bunch of rubbish—Bible verses and sex and elitism. Young. Old. I am the avant-garde. I am everything you never were. I will give you your fucking narrative! It is here, on this stick, roasting over an open flame! My narrative is one of non-contradiction. It is easy. It is a mantra. A = B = A. Silly us. We could have been binary. Protesters of the modern age with white-staked signs that read in big black letters: A + ~A = Us. We can win! I have found it!

Step. Ah. Yes. The ground. What is this? This! Movement? Right … the smoke—The Place; it is all chewing on my back—attempting to work me into another time-traveled expedition. No, Wells! No! Here lies mumble mumble. Murmur. What absurdity. Step. Step. Step. There is something in this, isn’t there? Tip! I mean step! Whoops. Cat’s out.

Ha!

Everything is Something. Yes. Yes. Yes. It cannot be helped. His existence reaches out from its place at the center of everything, and it looses these thoughts upon the universe; it wrenches them from his mouth, and they fall quickly outward. All objects are now Objects of a Universal proportion. Every tree and rock has become a testament to his pastfuturenow. Every electron is a memory crystallized in a frame of destiny. Each impounding photon releases a cataclysmic surge of memories&emotions. These will be deep waters that we’ll be treading, so I recommend that you pack your galoshes and raincoats—a small boat would not be unadvised. Of course, certain areas will be deeper than others—and murkier, like wading out toward the ominous Deep: each step possible death, each movement in danger of capturing the attention of Leviathan, and he will loose his tight-coiled grip on one of many pillars and swiftly overtake us; we will be no match for his fire and fury, nor will our hooks be efficacious in subduing his wrath.

Let us speak of movement and grace!

Or movement.

Or. Um—