Cosmos

His mind was nothing but an empty void, sullen and dark, pitiful. That was how it had always been, how it would continue to be. Unless it would be filled with grand things, of course. Things beyond the incomprehension of the simple-minded human creature, yes. Oh, how empty it begins! But as time moves forward the most extraordinary items get placed--only the hands of time, the ticking clock, sands of the glass, or shadow of the sundial--depending on which era you prefer, limited your ability to change the place you were placed. No, there was nothing else--merely, just the amount of life you have, the longest time you can hold your breath, represented your chance to fix the world in your vision.

And at first it is nothing. But all the wonders--all the colours! Soon yours will be worth more than anyone could ever imagine--the tools were at your fingertips. It all begins with your birth, your opportunities, and of course, luck. One can never go wrong with luck. 

When he was born, he was born righteously, pure and innocent, in a land that was given to him by privilege, when for all, it should be right. The fruits of the land nourished him--it was all it could do to help such a mind. No, the boy did not return its wonders, at least, not right away. He was to be the epitome--but he could not be, at his stage of sentience force. Time would change him--it would change us all, inevitably, indefinitely. 

When he was seven,^⁠1 it called to him. The might of a heavenly creature? The power of a worthy deity? No one knew! But oh, it was a powerful calling. That was when he knew--when everyone knew--that he had a destiny for something. To be truthful, it was a vague one, for he knew nothing of anything yet--it was merely a sign. Signs--they’re never interpreted right. The amount of mistakes--it is truly saddening how they’re ignored. A person can live an entire sentience force, dark and lonely, because of ignorance. But this child, no, he was ready. 

The town wasn’t small, but it wasn’t big either. It beheld peace and quiet, and judgements were seldom done--the tolerance of oddity was possibly high, a realistic explanation. 

The child’s dreams were insurmountable, unrealistic to many--it wasn’t rare to hear a, “That’ll never happen,” but it was to hear, “That’ll certainly happen.” The weight of society--a burden every child carried (but seldom wanted) could only be described as a pain. Nevertheless, at age seven he worked hard--continuously, ravenously--the lion had to be fed, or it would get angry--and it would only take meat. So this starving belly was all that powered his mind--a craving for knowledge, one shall say, and one shall say correct--such a sentence could never be wrong, with one look at the boy. Pen and pencil, pen and paper, ink and quill and eraser--journal sheets, scribble thoughts, writing words and fame he sought. It was all that was on his mind--school, what school? Oh, that school. Never heard of it. 

“Do it later, not in class,” the teacher would say--pitiful. Pathetic. Lousy. Thoughts that described the child to her, thoughts that described her to the child. 

Arithmetic, logic. Grammar, rules. Planets, space. Useful, but not. All the while--all he could do was listen--it was necessary to continue his existence but at the same time it was not, it was not at all. Death was inevitable without these facts in your head? Was that how the ancients survived? No, he would rather not listen. He would rather dream and think--but it was to be forgotten, said his teacher. And so it was. 

When he was twelve his dream came back. And no one knew. No one cared. A worthwhile task he was up to, spending time, pen and paper once more. He’d smile in public but frown in bed--unawareness, isolation, loneliness, all undetectable traits of a youngling--why would they tell you? His friends would say he was strange and playful no more. His parents scolding him to do his chores, the danger of stress. No, it was all he ever wanted--discipline! Confidence! The principles of verity! And yet is was so priceless to him--such valued objects that he did not need. His wanting, craving, starvation for something more--overwhelming his nerves, his condition at ease now. Quiet. That’s how he was. 

Despite the surroundings of many, he felt a single presence. His existence, in fact, in a nutshell. That presence was guessable--it was himself. He longed comfort, but what comfort? A cherry was what he was, what he believed he was--he once belonged to something greater, something with two parts, but now he was plucked and he was one. And soon to be eaten--about time--loneliness would consume him. No prayer would work, guidance was futile. Leave him be, said his parents. Leave him be. 

A little girl, a friend. Up the steps. 

“Let me talk to him,” she said, looking up at the towering giant at the door. “I’m the only one that understands him.”

“Go away.”

“Why?”

“Leave him be.”

Wrong she was, of course. He would not be cured with the same disease that was killing him--isolation. And of course this closest friend would know him well, but that was it. The boy understood that she would not help, no. Futile as well. This was more complex than the age of reason--deciding what was correct was simple, now it was not. The boy did not know what he wanted--and for the deists out there, no one knew what he needed, either. What a creation he was--complex but simple, and still pitiful. A curse or a gift, his mind? He did not know. But he knew one thing--he wasn’t special, he believed he was, he was not. 

The girl crossed her arms and frowned. “Hmph. Apathy is consuming him--I can help fix that. If you were wise you’d let me in--take advice from a little girl that seemingly knows more about your child than you.”

“Your falseness is unwelcomed here--your pretension--it’s astounding. There is no melodrama here, and your concern of pathos is unflattering. Devan was from my womb, was he not? I am the first to know him, I was the first for him to know. Good riddance, and have a good day.”

“I would like to speak with him, please.”

“You will not.”

Ah, the persistence of a young child! One may call it stubbornness, but no. She was delightful to Devan--she knew he’d want her to talk to him. But he was unpleasant to everyone, why would she? There was some form of existence, some aspect of it, that was limiting his ability to live it. Possibilities: that it would end? That it would not? Perhaps it was madness? 

“You may ask him if you want, he will say yes,” said the girl. 

“One more time, Paris: he is to be left alone. It’s a phase, a temporary fear--as if he has seen an unexpected, unearthly horror--not impossible to overcome, easier if left alone.”

“I digress.”

“How so?”

“You do not deserve my answer, you fat cow!”

The mother gasped, and here people would be laughing at such innocence and childlikeness of an individual--cute, lovely, comical. Rude, disgusting, mannerless. Take your pick. 

“How dare you!”

“I dare because I am his friend. He is my friend. I have an intense fondness of him. He has returned favours. And I know how he thinks--you spend your day in the kitchen, in the living room, in the bedroom, while I spend time to understand his view--his father spends time similarly to yours--I was the one who played with him as a child. And other children seldom did--if you think your decision is worth more than my judgement then this situation is downhill due to you--a hopeless case, tumbling--death at the door. There is no cure for loneliness, you must rid of it, but you cannot kill it. It always haunts you because your presence never leaves you--there forever--hiding, burrowing. Trapped.”

“I won’t waste my breath any longer with you, child,” she said, in defeat, making way for her. She hurriedly rushed up the stairs, calling, “Devan? Devan!”

He was both deeply disturbed and relieved--his indecision pooling his mind as he felt the hand on his shoulder. Cold. Darkness clouding--the season was full of rain. It seemed she had forgotten--raincoat, rain boots, clothing was missing. Oh, poor thing. She was soaked but careless, as if it was normal--careless for a reason, though. She would not let petty droplets be her stop sign--water was harmless. Liquid objects against skin and clothing. Oh, how harmless. 

She did not need to say, either. For him to know--it was a minuscule sacrifice for him--but what he wanted to say was that he cared--and even though he felt that, he did not say. He just felt comfort in the cold hand, the water making a mess on the floor, a detail neither of them acknowledged, for good reason. It was an unnecessary thought, but one that still filled his mind--that’s how he always was. Useless things, meaningful things, all of it was futile to his condition--his condition of not knowing. 

His room--small but cozy, cramped, one might say. There were no bells and whistles--simpleness was what he valued. Attic--that’s what it closely resembled, and like one, it was currently dark, mystifying, cold. A child--the child--sitting on his bed, facing the window of the cold, cold rain. Cold, everything was cold. The darkness soothed him, but he knew it didn’t. It was what he liked, so he stayed in it, quiet--reading. The girl looked around and looked it all but did not know that he hated it--he hated his room. What she also did not know was that he liked it this way, and he liked his room. 

“I brought you a present,” were the first words she spoke. “Your birth-giver forgot, doubtless. Day of birth.”

This was it. This was the time to say thank you, but he didn’t. It felt--strange. An abnormality, he supposed--one that was questionable and unexplainable. But it was corny, in a way--not because of the fact it was necessary but because of the fact he would never had done so if it weren’t for the ideas so planted carefully, engraved in his head since birth, decided by the world. 

“You don’t have to say it.”

“I want to.”

“It destroys you when you try. These are the types of things that bother you. I would ask why but I know you don’t know. Try opening it.”

He expected nothing but emptiness--hoped--nothing was what he wanted. It was not what he needed, although, because happiness was a commodity he had been depleted of--he simply forgot where to get it. The store had run out, it seemed. Paris knew where to buy it, and if she tried telling him the address he’d forget easily. Maps never intrigued him.

He gently opened the gift, the small little box it was. Ribbon first. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know it’s useless, and useless things bother you.”

“But they don’t bother you,” he spoke, a stranger’s voice, perhaps. For it was unrecognizable--not to her, of course, but to him--she was closer to him than he was to himself--something that he knew that was true, and the only one who didn’t know was himself. “If you like ribbons you should place them on all your gifts, and an imbecile who disagrees with that doesn’t have to receive your gift.”

A smooth, ballpoint pen--ha! How perfect, but still imperfect. He was intensely fond of it--he did not want to say that either. This time, it wasn’t out of fear--judgement was inevitable, after all, it was a gift--he did not say because he knew that she knew he liked it. Therefore she didn’t ask. 

Emotion--that was what he had felt, when he had opened it--but how could you say? It was deep inside him. Paris knew, but only because she knew him. For those that didn’t? Clueless. Underlings, they were, if they did not understand--his belief that the world lived forever and everyone else with it was odd but true, at least, in his scenario. Those who disagreed were ignorant. And it was this fact, that the perfection of the world was so lowly regarded, deeply disturbed him. Art was trashed, but everything was art--and yet, no one knew what art was. Defining it was easy--false, it was hard. He wondered what he’d do in the next hundred years, or hundred fifty, or one thousand. And the same for her--she wondered what she would turn out to be. No one knew, not even themselves--of course not themselves--they were the most oblivious, and that was a fact. Outside perspective had more value than the inside, for who can you impress if it were not for yourself? Did your opinion matter if you were the one that opinionated on you? 

“I shall use it,” he told her. Then regretted it--it was another useless thing to say, for she knew--that’s what he hated, useless things. That was why he felt lonely, an unexplainable thing--but he just was--lonely, desperate, the wonders in his head dimmed by himself, limited by his mind when there was a possibility a condition so human-like was possible--entrancement, enlightenment, along those lines the truths and emotions would be cased in revelation, but the matter was if, not when. 

“I sure hope so.” She, too, was a hater of small talk--in fact that was why she chose to befriend Devan. The boy never used small talk--he got right to the point. Always started a conversation deep to the core--if you started about the weather he would not find you interesting--perhaps that was why he had trouble finding companionship. He expected everyone to understand him as soon as they laid their eyes upon him--but only shallow people did that, no. He swam on the deep end--Paris too, only understanding him because she liked the deep end too. It was comforting for the both, relaxing, and the eagerness to get away from the sharks was soothing because it drove them--gave them unlimited energy to do what they wanted, while others didn’t have such a motivator--they liked to ignore the sharks, and therefore they had no drive. 

But how it was done: “Hello, I am Paris, nice to meet you, I contain six years in my sentience force timeline and I am your friend now.”

“Hello, I am Devan, I also contain six years in my sentience force timeline and I am also your friend now.”

That was it--no explanation needed to understand how their complex relationship was so close, the beginning was all you needed to know why. Their alikeness was outstanding--there were no questions asked. One day they didn’t know each other, the next they were best companions. That’s how the boy wanted the world to be--he wanted to talk to a stranger, any stranger, like so--a complete friend. There would be no walking up to a person and asking about the weather, no. Useless, useless, useless. A behaviour as such would make you alien to the boy because the truth was people didn’t believe him when he said he understood people better than anyone else--especially the school bully who said, “Then why do you have no friends, and I have so many? Punk!” Of course, the reason was because of the same exact reason--he knew ones that were worth being person creatures and ones that were not--he knew the ones that had sharks swimming under them. 

A speck. That’s what he was, and he knew it. He knew it would be impossible to be seen as something else, too. The school photo on the wall--all the kids gathered, the photographer on the roof, the teachers lining them up to spell the school name. Pathetic. Ugly. Something the boy didn’t want to be a part of--and his school spirit was high, although no one believed him when he said that, too. Shy, weird, strange kid--that was more like it, to them, at the least. But the photo didn’t turn out as well as he had hoped--which was that he would be the centre of attention. In fact, no one was, as every single person on it was a speck--future generations would look at the photo on the wall, with the year name, and not give a single care. Faces on a wall, that’s what they saw. But the boy saw the people he knew, grew up with, played with. Paris, in the corner, smiling. I know her. While strangers would only say, Aww, and nothing more--as if that’s all she was worth, a mere word of belittling, unimportant praise. No, she was the most intelligent, captivating, magnificent girl Devan knew--only to him, of course, never the strangers who would see the photo--that thought was pure sadness, it seemed, for him--a shame.
“The anthem in your heart,” said Paris. “The one you periodically speak of. What is it singing now?”

A shrug was all he could muster--what answer could he give? He was the person he did not understand the most--too complex for his own mind, a tower too tall to withstand its own weight--collapse imminent--inevitable danger, citizens below screaming and crying, the logger saying timber. 

“The anthem,” he said, contemplating. A while, now. Too long, now. He had to say something. But he did not want to--leaving it there was the safe choice. But she would ask, then. He did not want her to ask. And she did. 

“Yes, the anthem,” she said. “Uplifting? Corrupting? Can words describe it?”

“They seldom can.”

“They never can, I suppose. Is that what you mean? But I know what it sings. You are lonely but you’re not--you wish to be, and you know that isn’t true. You hurt yourself in your mass confusion. I understand. I understand that you don’t get things, understand things, you don’t want to believe things are this way, and why they’re this way. Am I close?”

The boy nodded.

“Most of all, I know you. You don’t like being trapped in your skin. When you imagine yourself in another, you don’t like being trapped in that one too. You long for a friend but when you get one you wish he or she wasn’t around. You are lonely, not wanting to be, but wish to stay lonely. Your contradiction is unavailing, and this is why you do not stand your ground when I say it is--you know it’s true. When you experience something you like, you regret it because you know when you like it, you’re being a normal person, which you know you aren’t. You know you are forming opinions, something every soul does, and you hate it, because then you know it’s merely the taste of your human body--who knows if that is the one and only true, right opinion? Maybe your favourite is actually not the best--a fear most people don’t realize they have. People don’t like to be wrong, I know that. But you--you don’t want to be right, either. Because you know that when you are, all your thoughts, thinkings, beliefs--hard to imagine a world where people praise you for it. What I’m trying to say is that you don’t want to be a person creature. But because you are, you are proud of it. You know there’s no way to live like a human if you are an entity that understands anything and everything--your sentience force and experience is unique, special, undeserving, too. So be it, fate will have you--it will deal with you. Whatever will come before you will. If I leave what happens to you, whether I am there to see it or not, will happen. You might slip in the stairs and die, and I would not know until later. And your universe will come to an end, but not mine. That’s what’s sad, isn’t it? The universe continues to exist without us--which is why we wonder why there is an us.”

True words, the boy knew. Falling was something he was used to--being told that he was was not. If there was such thing as fate then ha! He was correct all along--futile efforts for valiant success was all he was ever worth--what everyone was ever worth. The claims of happiness must be false, there was no such thing. The people at the top smile because they know they can, not because they actually want to, no. And that was the same with all. Happiness was a theory--it couldn’t be disproven, and until it would be, it was considered to exist. If he told Paris to smile now, and she did, it was deemed to be fake, of course--and if it wasn’t? By the grace of the heavens--boy was he clueless about himself! Wait, wait, wait. That’s what he would do. Until the opportunity would arise that he would not have to any longer. 

It was always, “I do not know,” and that would never change. The difference was that if he did know, he would know, but still say he didn’t. That’s what made him mysterious--he didn’t want to be mysterious. Paris understood that, so when everyone else thought he was, she was the one who thought he wasn’t. 

The time had come, too. For his internal body organ--the one that gave him energy, necessary but a liability, one that was so impractical--to call him downstairs. He wondered if Paris’s was hurting, too, but he knew it would not matter, for his mother would call them down either way. He hated having a stomach that required a daily effort to satisfy--it was exclusive to humans--not just humans, life--and yet still so impractical. Understanding why it was wasn’t hard, and yet he wondered why he was the only one that thought it was--maybe because people loved to eat, with the exotic, unique tastes of food--but the tastes were simple pleasures--time-limited. They lasted for seconds every bite, and then you wait for the next. Until your death, also. Useless, pitiful, pathetic. He wanted to rip his stomach out. 

There it was, too--something he had known would come--a mother’s calling, for a child to come eat, “Dinner time, Devan!” it said. Ignorance of the other presence in the house. That’s how it was--she disliked Paris, without a reason, too. Adults were that way. Devan wished when he would become an adult, and his illness of madness would cure, he would not be a grouch at the friend at the doorstep of his son--an annoyance, sure--but was it, or just your assistance of dominance and authority? Surely it was the latter, for Paris knew that--she knew persistence would ease the mother in letting her in. The daily reprise would weaken it as well, incessant, constant, annoyance of wanting to see the boy--it would take a toll on her mind. She would give in, the door would stay open, and only until then she would get tired of it again, she would let Paris in the house. The mother knew he enjoyed her company, but did not like it. 

And so, at the table where they sat to regain their energy through food (still a useless and impractical process that wasted time during the day, Devan believed--three times a day, to be exact), the mother talked to Devan, and Devan only. “How was school, child? What have you learned, child? I saw you reading without the lights on, child. Do you want to ruin your eyes, child?”

And if Devan did? If he wanted to ruin his eyes? It was an expression of anger and concern toward his sinful action, but if he were to say yes she would not believe him--that’s how it was, that’s how things worked, and he did not like it. Literalism--it was unheard of to many, but Paris knew that if he had said yes, he would mean it. He did not know what he would do without Paris somedays--it almost seemed one day she was part of his life and now they could not be disconnected--angry he would be, if it were to happen--and she was important to him. More than anyone else in the world. 

“I will be honest here,” she said as they were inhaling their food, “Missus, you are purposely ignoring me.”

A simple trick, of course--great, comical, forcing--she would have to say something or else it was true. This was what the boy wanted--none of the small talk nonsense--he knew, deep down, his mother did not really care about what he had learned today. It was a conversational effort--that was obvious--anyone who didn’t think so was a cretinous imbecile, he believed. How often was it anyway, one could recall the many things he or she had learned in twenty-four hours?--would one be able to remember every single word one has read after finishing a chapter of a book?

“I am not.” Made sure to clearly express the disgust in her voice, of course--no other way to tell her politely that she was unwanted in the household, at least, by her. The boy would rather kick his rude mother than Paris. 

Erasing that memory--that’s what he wished he could have done--sometimes he wanted to cleanse his mind of unorthodox thoughts, though they were honest--hurtful, nonetheless. He wished truths never hurt anyone, but it was false, of course--deeper into the pit he felt he was bounded to that he would contain these harsh memories. The chains were solid and strong, no pliers nearby. 

He wanted to have the perfect sentience force, but it was impossible, and he knew that. Things were the way they were, but what if it could be something else--unable to be changed, although, unless he was a supernatural deity that had utter omnipotence--if he died and looked over his life’s memories, he would see this moment, of him, his mother, and Paris eating chicken and asparagus. But what if that was not part of the formula to a flawless life? He was doomed then. 

Dinner too was such a bland idea--he couldn’t spare space in his head for such a bore, the thought itself was so uninteresting, everyone did it. The modern world--oh so boring. But what else? If he was in an era unlike his--medieval, palaeolithic, semi-modern, he’d say the same thing nonetheless. If there were no stars in the sky he’d ask why aren’t there, and if there are--which there are--he’d ask why there are. The questions asked by humanity--they were segregated from true verity. Endless but yet unanswered, rightfully so. Answering was irrational; truths revealed could be terrifying, too complex for a simple mind. 

Yet the instance dragged on--bite after bite, wordless. So naturally his mind wandered--drifted, one would say, one such as his mother, who only perceived it as that, perturbed by it sometimes. So much that his attention span decreased, and Paris asking, “So what are you writing about now, Devan?” went without a notice. Until now, when snapping back into reality and existence, he replied, “I don’t know.” He always didn’t, which was frustrating to most--not to himself, who had gotten used to it by now, surely Paris and his mother as well. 

“Currently I am clueless about what I want to write about,” he said. “Although I have been curious about many things--things you both wouldn’t understand. The delicacies of life, most likely--it would be a good guess. The truth is I do not know, I wouldn’t be the person to ask, even though I myself is the person writing.”

“What a shame,” said Paris. “I know you can write good. You won’t share it, though. Not even me?”

It wasn’t that--no, it was something different. When he wrote about something with a basis of normalcy, like a basic teenaged person creature with shallow emotions, a tongue that spit out slang, dancer of the latest and trendiest dances, all purity sucked into nothingness--he hated it. And when he authored one that was expected for him to have a tendency of liking--words and sentences about the plane of existence known as life--he hated it, as well. Bother merely identical him--corny, cheesy, what you preferred to call it--classical works were only classical because they were deemed so, he believed--most were merely outdated bores. The perfect writing topic--the perfect words and sentences to describe it--the perfect story in general, was nonexistent, as many would believe--an impossibility it was to have every reader love it. That was the scenario he was looped in--a danger because he would not get a single thing done. 

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” he said, the outright truth. Things like doing actions you weren’t in the mood for were unhealthy--it seemed the world had an obsession for that--but he knew Paris was done talking too--words were less than abundant with his mother around, not exactly uncomfortable but still they were limited by her presence. A security camera, monitoring them--it was a closer resemblance than a supervisor, or loving parent. And the rain--oh, the rain! What an annoyance! Heavy beatings of tiny things, multiple at once--as harmless as a mouse but as loud as thunder--loud. Too loud, that’s what they were--and shall he cover his ears? What was the worth? Sound was petty, a mere turbulence of weather--climate, one might say, the rain would not be going anywhere anytime soon. 

And one would say talking would drown out the noise--false! It only added, couldn’t they see? How strange would it be if the boy had covered his ears, too--it was a natural instinct against loud sound, but in public he’d be shunned. Overdramatic, possibly, but in that fashion nonetheless. No, a jet engine was when you covered your ears, and that was how it was with the world--the world had universal rules, and everyone followed them without knowing--it was the basis of humanity. 

A topic of conversation, perhaps, would be necessary--back then boredom tolerance was strong, without all the whizzes and gadgets and incorporeal places of the massive sharing of documents, pictures, videos--a necessity one cannot live without currently--hopefully it would change and things would reverse in time, but it didn’t seem to head in that direction. And if he were to initiate an exchange of words, he did not know what. For if he began something his way, it would never end his way. They wouldn’t understand. Let them try. Let them attempt to answer the way I want them to, and if they didn’t, my authority had already altered its course. The bondage of pure humanity--a seemingly interesting place to start, but he knew the car would never start--a bore not to him, but to others. How about… hmm, it seemed he would never start it then. It was infinitely better to keep his thoughts to himself--only he could understand, others wouldn’t--that’s how it always was, and he feared that was how it would always going to be. 

The three of them--eating casually--two engrossed in food but one engrossed in contemplation, thoughts, wisdom--the perception of the world, for instance--it was undoubtedly perfect, or so it seemed, that was what he was told. And for all he knew it was correct--but a perfection could be a flaw itself. His experiences--seemingly utopian, so far--were undisturbed by tragic events or evil maniacs. He could be wishing for it, now, and he would still not get one. 

But there. A single memory of evidence. His old friend--she was a poor one. Coming from the city and back, with history he never knew was possible--hard to believe, wondered if it was made up--but the stakes were high for her. She survived many things, and without as much exaggeration she could muster she told him the world was not always nice. It could hurl mean person creatures at you--bullies who tried to choke you, then tell the entire school you were the one who tried to choke them. An extremely specific example, he observed, and only because it was her example--her experience. Of course, how could it not have been? It was painfully obvious from the start. Her escape had been an additional school, away from her mistreatment of dignity, her soul-crushing enemies--the boy longed for her company now. Still entitled as the prevailing malevolence at that education centre. Stay away. 

It could be true, he wouldn’t deny that--but he had seen her soul. Sweet and innocent, fun and playful. There were only good times with her and his other friends. Oh well. Times were gone--faded, washed, replaced by blueness. An exemplary one would desire for a tragic story--one the boy would never write of. It must have been painful to be cast away by peers, ever more than how he was treated--he was considered strange but not evil, and he liked that. In fact, he liked to be only strange, as well. It made him different than others, although sameness would be present if he were in a crowd, sad but the truth. No, internal appearance didn’t matter to people--which was why good and smart people were never popular--you could not see purity or genius. In fact, even the famous geniuses are only famous for their deeds--all the same as smartness, one would say, but no. Not at all.

He was observant--too observant. He saw the shifting of Paris’s hand, the tiny speck of a fly in the distance in the kitchen, his mother stifling a yawn. He did not need to concentrate, as well--he just could see. And they wouldn’t stop, at least, Paris’s hand would not stop shaking--that was what bothered him most. 

“Stop that.” He clasped it--cold still. He’d try to warm it, then. 

“My hand can’t stay perfectly still, you know that. That’s a human quality.”

“Sorry.” His hand now retracted, he tried to make sense of what had occurred--his narrow vision had caused him to see the tiniest details, he supposed. There were some things he did that needed no explanation--he just wanted to do them--sitting on the couch, inhaling and exhaling through the nose quickly--shaking both his legs at once--wailing a strange noise that would not be considered typical for a basic-minded person--covering his ears at slightly temperate noises--why did he have to answer the question on why he was doing so? Why could someone not just do something because he or she wanted to?

Strange behaviours--they were no strangers to him--they were home, in fact. Not a single soul knew what he was--why he was--it didn’t matter to him, nothing did, mostly--and he did what he wanted. When he was eight, and the bullies defiled his sweet Paris--poison, they were--he gave no chances of redemption--their egotism caused their downfall, every day--dignity was no superiority to them, in their name, everything was below. There would be no violence, he had decided--pointlessness of it, too grand--and he wrote them a note. To this day Paris held the words close. “Perish from the might of the holy heavens, I shall banish you to a place to no avail, the wonders of my power shall inflict my fury and wrath against you heretic, die from the captivating smite, in the name of all that is merciful and glorious, and only until you allow yourself to build a repertoire of the principles of verity will you receive your salvation, you imbecilic, cretinous, scumbag, troglodyte Cro-Magnon hermit neanderthal, iconoclastic infidel, apostate full of unorthodoxy, deeply-insane psychotic lunatic maniac.” And that made him cry. The bully, with all his egotism--pitfall was his destiny, it could only be--fate was unforgiving. Oh, how he bawled! Of course, he knew none of what it meant; the boy was too sophisticated--even if he wasn’t, he liked to believe it (and he wasn’t). Truer words have never been spoken, no. 

That was when he was eight, when he loved to make children cry--oh, how it was so easy! He could spill a glass of water over Paris during those days--nothing but tears for the rest of the moment--joyful, a delight--a wonder for him, something that he could not explain. Paris always forgave him, though--that was expected from a friend, but he knew the truth--she forgave everyone. A fatal flaw? Unbeknownst to her? Such a matter of consequence needed to be quenched--no, it did not. But sadly he thought it had to--test after test was necessary--of course it was not, but he had thought that too.

Days of sunlight and childhood--truly blissful--eternal, no. The end was near--it seemed it was always near--but he didn’t want to be bothered. It did anyway, unknowingly starting loneliness--it seemed abstract human emotions did not give a single care--if only they did. If they did it would be a different world. 

When he was fifteen, the boy stayed anything but blissful--it seemed no medicine would understand his mind, no. Only sweet Paris, who would stay by his side--thankful, he was, truly. The education centre didn’t help--it was ruthless, but yet so forgiving--kids here and there, clueless, wandering, minds cursed by indignity--all there, it was. Incessancy--there too--drowning--that was what it did to him, what it felt to him. Time waste? He did not know--but he didn’t have a choice--which of course, was false--forcing was the right word to explain it. The answers would come to him, with time--they always came with time. Would age give wisdom, he did not know either--mystery, ambiguous, unclear--but set. Everything was set--the pawns were in order, the king and queen at their thrones--but what if the pieces switched? Dead he would be; order would not forgive him. 

And it seemed everyone’s hand was cold--he would warm them then--and it seemed every noise was loud--he’d cover his ears then. It was all he could do--he’d say he was choice-less but it was false; a mere attempt at explaining the unexplainable, that’s all it would be, if he had said so. Spotting the mistake in everything--something his skills never acknowledged--but he had the ability, and he knew he did, just no one else did. 

It was all about weekends and hangouts--“Aye, I hit it up with my boys.” Nothing else--study, mates, and the maturity of the body--unknown, alien, but still human. He liked to think he stayed true to himself during these times--he did not, though--but he still liked to think. Change--a sensitive subject to him, to everyone--yet necessary to evolution; it wasn’t possible to live a life bounded to your inner and old capabilities, that would be excruciating, boring, sameness. Freedom--that’s what it was. That’s what he felt he did not have, yet had so much of it. The choice was his in everything, or was it? Headaches--choice-less. Homework, reputation, opportunities--choice-less. Pitiful, once again. But a flower, he was--ready to bloom, even through winter. A flower on a spring--his bloom would not come without action--it would be steadfast, explosive, blood-pump-racing--yet it never came. They were there! They were all there! Opportunities--possibilities, was what he viewed in his mind instead--in fact, not even. Merely, solely: things he could do, but would never. Denying facts was something he could not do, either--unfixable, it seemed. 

How lonely he was! Yet, so surrounded--imagination kept him alive, but barely--and it seldom revealed itself to him--poor boy. Reminiscences--trueness, happiness, purity--abstract but there, out of grasp, his optical senses unable to push through to the revelation--sadness left instead. Once more, a try would not have been so hard, would it? Yes, he said. And no, it wasn’t.

Time would tell if he was wrong--he didn’t like to be wrong, no one did. And the best at it lie--and if they do not, they make very good reasons at explanation (possibly, lies as well). But a piece of humanity, in fact, the very core!--was that they could be wrong. Impregnable were their egos--yet so fragile. The boat of consciousness, drifting--it was afloat, but the sea creatures beneath would stay underneath, until the time came when they would be hungry--the basic morality of a personality. Evilness hid--but was it ever vanquished? Or were the waves of the majestic ocean merely too big to let you clearly understand--that the sea creatures were always there? 

They would attack you, bite you--some blood pumps of poison, the big serpents, would never leave you alone--couldn’t leave you alone. They’d try to swim side by side, and their fins would capsize you, their tail would scratch you inadvertently--you’d try to forgive.

Biting fingernails--ah, that was something he did a lot. Nervousness was unexplainable, as well--you know the boy hated unexplainable things. But his sweet Paris was always there, and justly so, comforting him was the least of her capabilities--encouragement was another. No, she did her job well--the blind boy could see, now--he could always see before but now, the wonders of reality were explained. It was always why, now it was how, because he knew why. 

“I don’t understand people either. They confuse me sometimes. But I suppose it’s expected--no, it’s certain--we’d be here, in this stage of our lives that will eventually end--that we begin to understand people. Academia, reputation, popularity--pointless things, and you know that. I know that. But the thing is we don’t know or understand what does matter. A problem that can be fixed, I suppose. Come, follow me.”

Paris always had a way with words--at least, for him--when she was in public she’d act normal--that ability made him jealous--loneliness was his best friend during those times. She was a book--her cover sold herself to the meaningless modern world, telling everyone that she was capable of acting how the world wanted her to--but inside, her pages were even more beautiful. She was just as confused as Devan. That’s what sold her to him--he’d buy that story any day. 

Her hand, outstretched--he knew what to do this time, he had seen many people, many times, to understand. It was so simple, yet he didn’t think it was. But it was, of course. He took it--she was in the lead--paradise, maybe, their destination--no, of course not. He wished. One may find paradise here, but not for the boy--no, never for the boy. 

A monstrosity it was--mud and snow was plentiful--but he would not complain. He could not complain. He trusted her--enough so that she could be leading him into a pit of death, and he would never know. But this would not be a pit of death. No, earth did not have any--of course it did, but nearby, no. Their steps were quiet, he noticed--not loud, he wished so--stealth was unexpected in a walk like this, but he wasn’t insane--he knew it would not have a beneficial significance in the scenario of the moment, the long, gruelling moment--there were no chasers to be afraid of. 

And that’s what he did not understand--there! Did you see it? A creature, created by nature (or a supernatural deity, he did not care as he considered the possibility it was true), in all its full grace and glory, swing and swing, in an unplanned path. Left and right, up and down, flap, flap. basic words to describe such a magnificent and truly powerful creature--an insect, yet so beautiful. Pests were insects, were they not? But this was no pest--it was a maniacal butterfly. It held such wonder and yet was just a normal, tiny, basic creature one would see while on a path. But the one on a path--a stroll in a park, perhaps--that one would be stable, planned. This butterfly was no stable creature. It resembled him, he decided. He found it fascinating--such chaos in a place of such order--that’s how it was, though, and he had to get used to it. 

“Here,” said Paris. Grass. Bleachers. Metal boxes--ah, this place. One would guess easily--popular spot? He did not know, although it did not matter--this was a place of honour, a place of teamwork, a place of fun. A get-together of sorts, for the maniacs of physical activity. And the bleachers--that was where they were going. They were cold--unforgiving, a moment could never be too perfect, it seemed, he had observed--he wished that was false. Wet from rain, he supposed--an inference was so feasible yet one he could not conclude--he could never conclude, unless he reversed time, or asked a person that had been watching the bleachers’ wet status overnight. Of course, no one had done that, but if someone had, he would ask that person, if the bleachers were wet from rain. 

The sunset--so magnificent, so earth-like--of course, because the concept of a sunset was so human. The idea of the rays dimming, the ball of flame dipping into nothingness, into oblivion, into the earth itself--was so unenjoyable to any other creature--except a human. Why was that so? He wished it was not like that--he wished that animals too could see the wonder and magic and beauty of a sunset--but it would never be like that. The world was strange sometimes. But either way, there it was--in the sky, soon to be not--the bleachers cold as they watched it. Ah, that pesky detail that kept nagging his head. Perfect moments were nonexistent, and they would always be. 

“This is what I had meant.” Paris exhaled. Then she inhaled. Breathing, that’s what it was. He knew that. Of course he did, he was not stupid (although he believed so). 

“What did you mean?”

“When I said all those examples of pointless things. All the things that other kids our age think matter.”

“What if they do matter? I suppose, it matters to them.”

“It’s not objective. Listen, I am saying they don’t matter at all. They’re pointless because they are--they are things that give short-term happiness. This--this is what matters.”

That would quiet him--he did not have a response to that. The reason was because it was ultimately true--he could not deny such truth, as well--time was their enemy but also their friend. The amount of time their feet would stand firmly on the surface of the earth was limited, and yet, because it was limited, so significant, so precious. This was what he understood but did not like--he did not want it to be that way, no one did--he did not want to be immortal, as that would be boring; he did not want to be mortal, as then he would die; he did not want to be dead, as that would be meaningless and boring too. He did not know what he want--supremacy of all living creatures, possibly. But that was unobtainable, the achievement would be legendary--no, extraordinary--no, impossibly godly! The path to enlightenment--it would never be revealed, it would never be obtained. The extremity of the possibility--too grand. Also epic--and the reason why they were not supreme beings of the universe was because if they were, their lives would not be as precious as a humans, anymore. 

Was this possibly what Paris meant for her example of things that mattered? Rightly so--he had cracked the code--of course he had not, but he liked to believe he had. The code would never be cracked, and as long as Paris told him things that mattered, he would believe her. He always believed her. 

“How could one sphere of light be so fascinating, yet so equally boring?” he asked her--all he could think of. “And why does it matter?”

“It will be hard for me to explain to you, but, I will try. The sun is a star--it has always been, will always be, as the many other ones in the universe. But this one is the one we see, the one we use, the one we enjoy.”

“And why does it matter?”

A moment passed, silence. She exhaled. 

“To others, it does not. But to us--the both of us--we see it now, on this bleacher, in this time frame, no one else. We are the only two beings that will have this memory, this experience, of the current moment, right now. But specialty like that isn’t worth alone. That’s why it matters.”

And then he understood.

When he had been eight, things like these didn’t matter--that was expected. What was also expected--by himself, in fact--was that the things that he cared about would change with time. As a baby he knew that when he would grow up the tickles, the hugs, and the funny faces would not be the things that mattered the most to him. He was right. When he was a toddler, he knew that when he would grow up the bubbles, the laughs, and the fireflies in the backyard would not be the things that mattered most to him. He was right. When he was a child, he knew that when he would grow up the toys, the friends, and the game screens would not be the things that mattered most to him. He was right. He was always right about those types of things. Sometimes he wished he wasn’t, but change was inevitable--the source of it, who knew, but it would come for all. Sadness ensued--thoughts like those, it darkened his mind--his shivers at night were because of those, the haunting, old, childhood memories of significancy and the warm hugs of the loving parents no more. The dawns and dusks of time would be different each time, never the same--time would be the only thing different. Two, four, six, twelve--numbers that represented a cache of infinity, in an amount of time that people considered needed to be counted--years, that was what they were called, what they would always be called. The necessity of the counting--why? Why did it exist? He wanted answers! And what angered him was not that he did not have them, but that he would never get them! The pressure and weight was too much to bear. He had to go. Now. Out. He was tired, he’d say.

“I’m tired,” was all it took, and he was off. 

“Wait!” said Paris. “The sunset hasn’t finished.”

“It will never, in my eyes, until I find out why. But I know I will never find out why, which is why I don’t deserve to finish it. I know how--the earth’s rotation and curvature all play roles--the effect is the disappearance of the sun, only to come another day, with new light than before--that is not why, though. And I want to know why.”

Snakes slithered away from danger--he wanted to be like so--and danger wasn’t present but it was everywhere--the acceptance of the danger being there drew him away. He did not have to have a danger--it was just there, in his mind. So he left, Paris trailing closely behind--and she wrapped his arm around her, as the thunderclouds began their lightning and rain. The bleachers would stay cold, he supposed--and he would not make it warm--he did not want to.

The time came when things would become harder. A new age, a new positioning of time, a new section of his time at the secondary education centre. When academia responded harshly, he responded harshly as well. Everyone knew he would--he had always been a tough person on the subjects they learned at school--always being the starving tiger, never the deer. The deer would be unsatisfying in his favour, being as stubborn as he would be--never failed to find success, although--it would always hide from him, but he would always find it, always catch the deer. And so his informers, his instructors--they never told him to work harder, to run faster to catch the deer--he always did. And many others failed to catch the deer, or didn’t even try. Then they blamed it on him, envying his ability to have the tasty deer--it wasn’t his fault he was so talented! The deer was tasty and he deserved it--he would only share with those who tried to catch their own, as well. Otherwise it would be pointless, as the shared-to would only have a reason to ask him for another--because he had given them the first. 

In his utopian world, no one would die. That’s how it was, in fact--not in reality, not unrealistically (fictionally), but truthfully. The infinitesimal advancements overtime--immortality was inevitable. He had already achieved it too--everyone had. He liked to believe so, even if he knew it wasn’t true. But, that was how his world worked. And how else, you may ask? The perfections--all of it, every of it. Too many of them, as well--it was infuriating, but nonetheless, it was not, since they were meant to place everyone. 

This perfection--first-world-ness, it bore a gravity similar to the physical one--in that it always attempted to pull him down, every single day of his entire existence, until the one day it finally would, when his blood pump would cease to beat. It was venom--poisoning. It was a shadow--darkening, haunting, soul-crushing, effortless and umbral--it would be a wasteful but valiant and impossible try at withstanding. This perfection haunted him and he did not know why--the possibility that it was too perfect? That was a possibility itself--in fact, the most probable explanation. 

His ineptitude would cost him greatly--his inability to express his complicated thoughts--he did not like wholesomeness because it was so practical, lame; he did not like corruption because it was evil, hateful, spiteful. A true home, he would never find--there was not one he liked because they were all imperfect, and yet their imperfection drew him in--close, comfort--an aspect that was universally admired but yet deemed unpleasant was the idea of a cramped home--cramped meant cozy, did it not? Like his room--exactly like his room. 

The calling, unexplainable--times like this, it wasn’t even there, but it was--and yet it wasn’t. The anthem--it called out now, what did it sing? Not only he did not know, but he did--he just would not find out, he did not want to--yet he did, and he knew. The ineptitude of explaining--that, could be explained. But it was still hard, and he would try. It was impossible to perceive something else, a fourth dimension, an alternate world--because of the one he was in. The cosmos were the cosmos because they were, no explanation necessary, although one was wanted. But they are the way they are--ask why, and be given something else--you’d ask why that else is that way too, pondering about nonsense, eternally. The closest he’d get to an explanation--yet one that wasn’t one at all. Oh well. Time would change him again, and maybe till then, he could explain--he knew of course that wasn’t true, but he still hoped--and yes, it wasn’t true. 

In his time he wished he had had a brother. A sister, perhaps--a companion that suited him at all times. And his sweet Paris would say, “Am I not enough?” and he would not lie--of course she was enough. But at times she wasn’t--she most likely still was, but he simply did not feel that way during those times. There was just an emptiness between him and salvation--happiness, of course, was what he considered to be his salvation, something he had never experienced before (his mother told stories of how he would never laugh as a baby). This emptiness was a void, and it did not separate him from anything except himself--he always felt incomplete, undesired, deserted. Even if he knew he wasn’t. This loneliness was his sea creature--his evil that fed on himself, and the tentacles of the mighty organism would never left him up, only pull him down--he always slipped away, though, for they were very slimy, slippery--but he knew he would never escape. 

“You are enough, you will always be enough,” he had said. “For anyone. But not for me. I have an unquenchable thirst for wisdom I will never find--in a way, we all do--but that way is only for some people. Some people find happiness on their own, without help, and with ease. I am not one of those people. You know that by now. And so if you are ever hurt by me, I want you to run--I will never apologize, I will never accept defeat--I never do. Run from me, I am hopeless, I am useless--and I hate useless things. And if you argue, if you reason, then shame on you for trying to put up with a monster, a creature of the depths--my fins are heavy, they always weigh me down. That is why I live in the sea.”

The tales never seemed to scare her--she always came back, she would always come back. It was because of that fact that safe hands were all the boy had felt throughout childhood--others weren’t so lucky. And that was it! The imperfection of perfection--how his world was so beautiful, and he knew he would not die because of its safeness and lovingness, that made him feel as if he was worthless. A pawn. But even the kings and queens that sat on their throne felt worthless at times. Even if he knew he was no king or queen. 

If his blood pump beat badly he would not know--of course, he would, but he would not for the sake of knowing, for if this was true then why do old folk never see their blood-pump-attack coming? The forthcoming should be there, yet it wasn’t--blackness, darkness--they would seek no solace, the organs failing in solidarity and harmony. They would seek aid, and they would fear, even as they looked into their loved one’s eyes--how horrible! They fear even when they should not! They fear even when they are being nursed back to health by the experts! They fear when they have no reason to fear, for death was a silent menace--a cause for death was the failing of the organs, but others would say it was when your mind expired, your feelings for living were ceased for any reason--true death began when the living did not value the living any longer. Things were this way--they just were. 

Once more, in his utopian world, that would never occur at any given time, of course, which was what made him so fearful--that he believed darkness would never arrive--how bland it would be if that were the truth. The significance of pain, hurt--he derived pleasure and joy. What he valued was the fact he would be infinitely sad if Paris was somehow taken away from him--that feeling, or the possibility of the feeling, was precious to him. It would always be. 

When he was a little boy he did not understand such things--in truth, he knew nothing, although at that time he’d like to believe falsely so. And that occurred every year, until this year, he believed he was at the height of consciousness--which of course, at his every living moment, he was--but it would be false in one year. No one truly knew when they would certainly tell they were at their peak; the best they can be. 

A fable was always told, continuing the anthem that his blood pump knew--and it always spoke of generosity, of starkness, of isolation--he did not want to be lonely, and he never was--why did he feel it? Dark corners, dark halls, dark rooms. The shadows on his wall never slept, and they never let him sleep either--and it could be that darned tree outside making the ghostly appearance, or it could be him--what was frightful was that he could not tell, would never be able to tell. The rain acted as a mirage as well, and on dark, cold, rainy days, when Paris would hold him tight (she did not like the lightning, he did not like the thunder--loud sounds had always bothered him, as they should for all) he would heave his heavy thoughts out--the carpet was ready for them. For him. He would walk down--flashes, everywhere--cameras, make it stop! And before he knew it, he would be asleep. 

The flashes would not be light. They would be monsters. 

Euphemism, too--it was always one. Toning down was something he had always done--his thoughts could get dark at times, good graciousness, he did not have the capacity or vocabulary to share any of them--good, but bad. He did not know which, his mother did not know which, Paris did not which either. Clasping was what he did, though, every night--the blanket, the pillow, Paris during a sleepover--but the point was nothing, the clasping was futile--not even a chance, a mere, ineffective attempt to chase the sea monsters that made those loud sounds and had such cold hands. Oh, such cold, cold hands. The insufficiency lead him to find his mother’s room--another futile effort, she was asleep and would not help.

“What’s wrong? Nightmares?”

“If only I could describe them as that.”

“If you try really hard, you can fall asleep and forget about them in the morning. I suggest you try, at the least--the clocks ticking, and winds are blowing--they always will and they will not stop. If I had the power to make them all stop, I would, for you, but I do not. The sounds will stay, your fear might not, only if you just sleep.”

Paris always comforted him--a lie. He would like to believe it, if only it wasn’t such a fib. He was in vain, no doubt, and this misfortune would cast him away--the island was there, very close, yet far. That’s where he would live. Where he would not have to cause a problem to anyone and also not have to answer such hard questions, hear such loud sounds, face such--a feeling he could not describe. Corniness, possibly. Although one would never know, since he could not tell if that was it himself. You could ask him and he would not know--sometimes you could ask Paris and she would know, but not him. No, never him. 

He wished a knight in shining armour would save him--pathetic, he was. He truly was, he believed. Although his pathos would cost him--it always did, never scornful contempt. And sympathy or empathy were two deserved saviours, why did they never come? How hollow he was--his inadequacy would be his downfall--no arousing pity would rise from others if he didn’t even have some for himself--no, a scumbag he was, egotistical, helpless because he did not believe he required help. That’s how everyone was, you could tell--you’d be lying if you did not say everyone had a little egotism in themselves sometimes. The most humblest person would take pride in being the most humble--but he would just never say.

Pertaining to his emotion, evoking any would give him pleasure--not happiness, pleasure--yet it was impossible, at least, for this boy. Please! Oh, gain an understanding, young lad, trouble had always found you. A thing many and most would say to him, and him to himself. 

But Paris would never say that. Too kind, she was--he wished she would have a few flaws--there were thousands to choose from. Corruption would find a way into her blood pump one day--he wished. No, that would be a terrible wish--and it was not because he felt as if he did not deserve her--he actually did, in fact, he was not an unkind person--but he hated perfection. And at the same time, if something was imperfect, he would hate that too. He contradicted himself not because he wanted to, but because he was contradictory--that was obvious. Without a doubt he wished he wasn’t himself--and then if he wasn’t, he wished he was, because he understood his way of thinking--that no one else in the world was like him. It was something mothers always said to their children, and that was no false encouragement--there would never be another Devan. If a clone, that clone would never be physically, him--it would be another set of cells, muscle, tissue--a dead weight carried by the same mind--the mind would not even be the same either, for new tissue was used for it. 

No, if he was someone else, it wouldn’t be the same--literally and figuratively--because if he was another version of himself it wouldn’t be himself anymore. If his personality was altered--to be that of a normal one--good grace, he would hate it. But then he couldn’t, because he would be someone else. But he wished to be as oblivious as other people, it would calm his mind, give him true happiness--yet that would suggest sameness, and he hated sameness, so he was glad to be enlightened--yet being enlightened was utterly depressing. What a disappointment. 

One day, he could not refuse the option any longer--the option of ending his universe manually. The minds of the depraved--they would ease, never--and one like his was not worth one at all. It was when he was three. The option was calling to him--it was peaceful, pleasant, delightful--and irresistible. His dear, sweet Paris did not know--no, she would never know--but it had been on purpose. Suffering was something no one wanted--his mother, his father--they would understand, wouldn’t they? But all it took was a dangerously close knife, and suddenly his wrist was bleeding--and that wail! That loud, vicious, ghastly and unpleasant wail! Was it from him? Yes, it was! His vocal chords annoyed his ears, the cycle of sounds reverberating through his chest, his head, his entire body!

“Stop!” she had said, his hero. She was always his hero. And there she was--so immensely braver than he, and though yet the same age--it was impossible to him, he could not believe as such. And suddenly the knife was away from his hands. 

“You hurt yourself with that knife!” screamed she, grabbing a tissue to pressurize the wound on his wrist--a scar that would stay there forever (and truthfully, it did--he still had it to this day, and Paris would always remember). And he had waited--waited until she would ask why he did that. But he realized she never would--she believed it to be an accident. He was scared to tell her that it hadn’t been, it was purposeful--he could not. He just could not. 

“Never play with these knives again, you dummy.” She had used a word he had so much hatred for--it was so childlike. His mind had done this, not him--he liked to believe that. To this day he still believed that. But he knew--he knew he wanted his mind to stop thinking. That was why he did that.

“I’ll take care of you, don’t worry. You are not a dummy.” She smiled--he hated the sight but did not want it to go. A laughing matter--this wasn’t even close to one--yet she smiled. He would never understand how happiness worked. Then, with a shout that would be considered powerful to many, “Missus C! Missus C! Devan needs help!”

It would be a lie to say he hadn’t matured since he was three--everyone had. At least a little. But he swore to never try doing anything like so ever again--not for himself, not for his mother, father, school and neighbourhood friends, but for Paris. A shame--he would have loved if he had succeeded, he would be a liar if he had said the opposite, and Paris still did not know--she would never know, he had already decided--this time, that was for him. But distant memories faded--it was a well-known occurrence, and he wished it wasn’t that way--he wished a lot of things to not be the way they were, a very noticeable trait of him, of everyone, in fact--but the sun would cease on the horizon whether his choice or not--nature didn’t abide to anyone’s rules, and it certainly would not for him, an insignificant speck in the cosmos. 

And the teachers would ask about his scar the next day--oh, how much they cared! Oh, how much they actually wanted to know! False, of course. It would always be false--if they understood they still would not have cared, at least, not as much as Paris--at times she cared more about him than himself, and his scar proved that. The kids would gather--with their noisy footsteps, too--and they would touch it--with their cold fingers. The little details made him scream! They were unwanted--his territory shall lay dominant--no loud sounds or coldness. And the children would look at him oddly--with enough right to do so--but still he did not think he deserved the attention. He would yell and scream and some of them would cry. The teachers did not--no, they never did, it seemed. But if they understood his anger, his portrayal of his inner sadness and the inner sadness itself, they’d wail too. The children did--and it was pure empathy, he supposed--and they always cried. Always. Sometimes it hurt to hear them do so, but never too much. Never too much, no.

Imbeciles, they were. A thing he could do about it? Not. And he knew their perspective, he knew it well--it would be reversed. But he was not odd, or strange, or alien. He was human--yet so different. And yet, so similar! This nonchalance would be the tone of his anthem that day, when he realized he was not an alien (then, back to believing it the next day). But the lack of tense air would never ease him, no. His audacity to call himself odd--flattering, to himself--he did not know why. He took pride in defeat but at the same time he hated it--how could that be? Mysteries were always easier to come up with than solve--mountains were the only roadblocks--who cared, his path wasn’t clear anyway, even without them. What he needed was a map--and he hated maps. Maps never intrigued him, no. They never did. He preferred to find his own way--and even if he knew he never did, he still attempted, all the time--it was a characteristic worth denoting of importance, but it did not flatter himself in the slightest--no, it was a disturbance to compliment him, you never did, which was why no one ever did. He would get angry. 

Nearing the end of his experience as a maturing youngling, friends had never been as important as now. Important, but not to him--even though they were. They were assets in everyone’s eyes, but not to him--and Paris would be the topic of the next question asked and he’d say she did not count. He did not know what she was. A friend, possibly. A companion, certainly. His vocabulary was too limited--and it would always be--to describe what she was to him. 

But they came nonetheless--all shapes and sizes. Talkative, they were--perhaps that was why talking back to them was so easy--he hated to be the one to continue the exchange of words and sentences and opinions, since most of the time it would have to be small talk--he would not know what to say, what to do, and if he did--he would never know if it would be the right thing to say at the time--he wanted his sentience force to be perfect, although he knew he ruined his chances already because of his birth--and he would look down as a dead person at his former self, his living self, and spit in disgust. The amount of spit would be glorious, too. Enough to fill a bathtub.

And these people who came in all shapes and sizes--friends, they considered him--even if that was not what he had intended in the first place. He did not need another, he had Paris--but he did, and he knew that. He would be lying if he said she wasn’t enough, but if he had said she was enough, he’d be lying to himself. He hated knowing that. He hated knowing the truth in general. And they would invite him to parties--he never understood the point in that, without a doubt, of course he wouldn’t--and Paris would always go without him. A difference he would make--it would be tiny, if he had went, which he knew, which was why he never went. Some would disagree but they would be wrong, in his opinion. Opinions. He hated opinions. 

But there was this one boy, one who he had liked almost as much as Paris--sometimes, depending on his mood, or how recently he had played with the boy, he would say just as much as Paris. Of course. It was always like that with people--he was a person, and so it was always like that as well--he did not wish to be like that, but it was a human quality. Emotions always got the best of him--which then, would mean emotions were the best of him--and he refused that time after time, expressing this: “Emotions are not me.” Even if they were. And they were. And he knew that, and he hated that. Yet, they weren’t. That’s what he believed, too. 

Eliwin. But Paris said she would never say a name that long (it wasn’t too long, but they met him when they--she--was seven, and at that time, it was long for her), so they renamed him--renaming him wasn’t hard, or easy. He’d say disrespectful--Devan--but who was he to decide on that--Eliwin did not think so and rightfully so--he was the one being renamed. Eli. That’s what they called him--only them, too. Everyone else at school--ha! Pathetic; they did not understand, would not understand--it was an inside procedure for him and Paris, and when they would inquire on the name they would say nothing. Special--that’s what Eli called it. Devan did not agree but he liked the boy--he was a charm, a fun person to be around--much like someone else. Who? He tried to remember. Ah! Like Paris, of course. 

Eli did not think like the two--evil had no place in his blood pump, no, but sometimes, goodness too. Considered fun, he was sometimes, but also a mischievous puzzler--a person that pulled them, no, sucked them, the anteater--into trouble--the occurrences rare, but yet also not. 

“Let’s ring the doorbell of that mister’s house over there,” he pointed. “And then… run!” 

So his ideas weren’t exactly grand--yet they were in Devan’s eyes. And not because they were evil, but because it was something he would never have thought of before. That was what inclined him to do it--that sea monster capsizing his boat again, once more, into the adrift of the nothingness--the void, the bottomlessness, the darkness, the deep trenches of the abyss--of unconsciousness. That pesky sea monster! He realized that if he was big enough he could wrap it into a ribbon--and he hated ribbons. They were useless--he tried to be nice to them, though--Paris liked them, she always had, and it was also a universal characteristic that he would brighten up at them too, since he liked Paris. He hated why it was like that--his opinion was being altered because of her--and it wasn’t only him, he knew that. Of course he knew that. And he also knew that he would never be big enough to strangle the sea monster into a ribbon--unless he grew that big, which was impossible--and he knew it was impossible, but what if it wasn’t? It was, but still he had hoped. That was how the world worked here--you could not grow that big. There was no one you could ask why. And asking someone would be such a pain, since you would have to explain it all over again to them, and they would not understand--they never did. You had to keep to yourself, or get embarrassed. 

He would ask his mother sometimes, or Paris--the most random things (to them, at least, but not to him--no, never to him, since to him, it mattered a lot) and they would always not know how to answer. “Why can’t I grow big enough to strangle a colossal deep sea serpent? Why can’t I wake up at ten in the morning and then wake up at nine, without doing so before? Why can’t I brush my teeth with an eraser? No one would be able to stop me, and it makes sense--it would erase the bacteria.” But that wasn’t how it worked, and when they would explain to him why, he would never listen, because he liked to believe that was how it worked--and he did not care if others didn’t. And why did they care so much? They would call him stupid, but he could call them stupid as well, since they falsely believed he was stupid! 

So since he wasn’t able to grow big enough to strangle the serpent, the serpent always won. And then it would sing a new anthem. Evil, evil, let it reside, through your veins and through your hide. Follow Eli, his flaws will ride, evil will always stay by your side. The anthem was loud, too loud--and it would always override, even if he did not want it to. 

“That sounds like a great idea,” said Paris. “Sounds, but not actually is. Although it would be fun! Let’s do it!”

It wasn’t as if Devan had no choice, but he felt like that--even if he knew it wasn’t true. But his conflicting mind did not help or give him power in any way--his choosing to do so was his fault, he would never admit. He did not like admitting, no. But everyone did not like admitting, and so, he was like everyone--which he did not like, too, he wanted to be different, and at the same time not. 

They did so--an old, blind man shakily came after a minute--for Devan, a sight for healthy eyes--now they turned sore. “What? Who? Where?” would be his chosen words to be spoken, and he would move his head sideways--not to look, but to hear, Devan knew--of course he knew. And the old man would never find out--that was part of the funny action Eli would do--and it made Devan sad that he would never find out. Because the old man--he would be just like him. A person so desperate for answers, yet gaining none--but this time, it was different. This time, he could get the answers, the old man--from him.

“Devan, no!” 

But he would not listen to Eli this time. He was growing--ten feet tall, fifteen feet tall, a hundred feet tall! And he would need a boat no more--the serpent could capsize it all it wanted, but his feet touched the seafloor. And he reached out his hand, twisting. Doorknob, open. Serpent, a ribbon. 

“Yes, young lad?”

“We were the ones to ring the doorbell, mister. I am sorry. I hope you know that.”

The old man--why did he chuckle? He did not know why, he never did--people were strange. This was no funny matter--this was serious--he had thought the old man had wanted answers. 

“You young lads and lassies! Back in my day, I used to do that all the time! You ain’t need to--”

Door. Shut. He could not take it anymore. The interaction was too personal. He hadn’t wanted it to get that personal. And he was angry. He knew he showed it--he had slammed the door, stomped down the steps, and walked right past Paris and Eli. And there were good reasons--they would not think so, they would say he was rude--but he had completed his purpose. He had told the old man answers and that was all he had wanted to do--mission completed, satisfaction granted--and he did one of the worst things he hated. Start some small talk! Oh, what disgustingness he had experienced--he was truly mortified!

“Hey, wait!” said Paris, and they caught up to him. “What was that for? That was unnecessary, I hope you know that. That was rude. The old man was speaking.”

“Do you want me to tell the old man I had shut the door? I do not need to. He is blind, but he can hear the door being shut.”

“What? No. Of course he would know. I mean the action itself--that is not what a regular person would do.”

“I am not a regular person--mother has said so herself. I am a special boy.”

Paris made a frustrated noise, and stomped her foot. “You just don’t seem to get it!”

“Devan, why are you so strange?” Eli would say. Sometimes Devan would choose this moment to strike him, or strangle him (always resulting in Paris stopping the two) but this time he didn’t feel like it. In fact, every time he didn’t feel like it, and he didn’t know why he did. It was instinctual, an impulse from his emotions--he hated emotions so much! He wanted none! If he could not know happiness he did not want all the rest! 

“I want my emotions dead!” he screamed. “Dead! Dead! Now!” 

Luckily there were no babies nearby, but one time, at a park, he had caused one to cry because of the same words. He did not know why--loud sounds never seemed to bother anyone else but him, and a baby could not understand the words (he was unsure of this fact)--they did not know what he would mean--so why did they cry?

“Be quiet,” Paris told him.

“And why?”

“The neighbours will hear you.”

It was such an impartial excuse--if they heard him, no harm would be done. They could easily choose to ignore him, could they not? This nonsense was what drove him mad--and so he kicked a rock on the street--oh, how much it had hurt! He did not yell though (he took pride in that afterwards), and instead he pondered at how much he hated and was angry at anger--an irony, perhaps--and how he did not want to be angry, he did not want to kick a rock and hurt his foot, he did not choose to do it too--but his mind did, due to instinctual anger. He hated emotions, and what made him upset was that hate was an emotion too--if he had no emotions, he would neither hate nor love them--and so he had decided they were necessities, even if he did not believe they were. 

“I’m going home if Devan is going to throw another tantrum.” On his bike, Eli, and he was off--there was no condescending fashion to the statement, no. Devan knew him--he had not meant to hurt him, it was a statement that explained why he was leaving--yet his emotions, once again, explosive--they told him that he didn’t like that statement, therefore he did not like Eli--and he didn’t want that. He wanted to like Eli as much as Paris. Supposedly Eli himself wasn’t making it as easy as Paris--sweet Paris was too lovable, too kind--that annoyed him most of the time--and she made it very easy. 

When the boy would explain to her that he had made an observation on his emotions--that he was never happy and always sad or angry--she would interrupt him and say what she thought. 

“You do experience happiness, you just never perceive it. When I tell you a joke, you laugh--that cannot be faked, no,” she had said. Boy, he hated those words. Because they were entirely false--at least, he did not want to say that. He liked Paris--there it was again! His inability to express his opinion because of her. How did she do it? Magic? Witchcraft? No, you’re wrong--that was what he had intended to say. And he did not value the feelings of others--how could he, when he did not even value his own--and Paris was not doing anything, at least, not visibly. How could he not say the words?

It brought tears to his eyes--and he hated that, for he knew that she would think the reason he was crying was because he was so angry and hateful, or that he was guilty and sorry of the old man incident. No, he was crying because he could not say a mean thing to her. He never could. No one could--she was Paris--everyone knew her should and would never do so. 

Instead, he said, “It is fake. Laughing at a joke--that isn’t real happiness. If someone was on their deathbed, and they laughed at your joke--would they stay happy? No. It’s short-term and it isn’t real.”

“Then what is?”

“I don’t know.” He never did, no. “I am seven--unwise, yet to learn many things. Experience isn’t my wonder, and I don’t know what will be in the future. What I do know is that I will never find out--when I laugh at your joke, it is out of gratitude for your effort--I wanted to make you feel good, that wasn’t my true reaction--a pity laugh, you may assume. I will never understand true happiness--no one will, in fact, it doesn’t exist--until we are out of this state of man--for now, I am sad. Always. You are, too.”

“Am not!”

“Am too!”

Ah, the cries of young children, developing minds--and he would continue to believe he was correct until he would find the truth--which he knew he would never. There would be no young lad to tell him this time, no. He would always be the blind man--living with his ears, his ears making him able to live life, but never truly. If only his eyes would work, and enlightenment would cease to hide itself, would he truly consider true happiness.

Clock--on the wall--it was ticking. And the winds blew, he knew they were still outside--but he also knew the clock at home would tick no matter what, which was how he knew. Time never stopped--a universal law. He wished it would, for just one moment. When he, Paris, and Eli rode their bikes to the beach--ice cream, smooth and fortunate, they were lucky--and the boardwalk so they could douse their feet in the water and feed the ducks. Wielding sticks as swords--snowballs as snowballs--the winter night sky casting its starlight upon the three of them. That night was cold and windy--Paris’s hair kept getting in her face, in her mouth--she was constantly spitting it out. Eli kept shivering. But it was a mutual agreement--silent but known--they had all enjoyed that evening and would remember it--cherishing, he remembered. That’s what it was called, what regular people did. Then, of course, when he and Paris watched a movie in her backyard--popcorn on grass--fireflies always flickering in front of the screen. Paris said she hadn’t enjoyed the boring flick her parents had put on for them--but she had stayed because he was there. 

It was possible, perhaps, that he could capture a moment of time and stop it there. And he had always theorized that maybe, maybe then he would experience true happiness. If there was something he could live in forever. Of course, that was impossible--of course it was, and he knew it. Yet, it wasn’t, and that’s what he believed--he believed everyone was immortal too. It could be possible. He had always believed in whatever he wanted--at least, that’s what he told Paris whenever she would ask about it--in truth he did not know. 

The thrill of the ride always came at the climax--and sometimes he would change that in his stories. Put it at the start, why not--there were no rules when he wrote with the ballpoint pen Paris had given on his twelfth birthday--she had said so. He believed her--of course, not all the time, but this time she wasn’t so delusional--she never was, actually--she had made a strong, fair, point. When the rollercoaster drop was at the beginning, people would scream and immediately enjoy it. But the beginning was quick--first, fast, and terribly short--the readers would have no reason to read the rest of the story if the only good part was the beginning. Ah, he did not know sometimes. Scratch--he did not know all the time. This unknowingness was a trait of him--a trait of everyone’s, in truth, but it didn’t feel that way. He had always felt alone, alone because his entire sentience force timeline he had felt that people always knew more than him, and he was always catching up. Sometimes a younger child would ask him a question. “Mister, where is the bathroom around here?” And he would not know, asking what that was. “You don’t know what a washroom is? You’re silly, mister.” And he would not know a washroom could be called a bathroom (something he had always found imbecilic--then again, he found everything imbecilic), or a lavatory, or a restroom, or a loo for that matter. 

And he’d feel inferior to the child--but that was simply emotion. The truth was that neither of them were inferior, and he only believed so because he had been outsmarted once--once was enough to crush a person’s dignity, he had discovered. Just once. 

Boylessness-holders and their falsity, he could not stand it. And he would not favour one type as he’d say the flaws in each one. Shy and quiet and loud and excessive in popularity desire--they all were disliked by him through dense emergence and lightened, alight coercion, and doom zealots would be as if so instructive yet in the midst of his vestige comrades, the lads and the lassies, then pristine boylessness-holders would be so sufficient--in their eagerness to fulfill a requirement they did not need to, reimbursement was a hazard that none wanted to part of. And a convergence in such transmittal--positioned quite heavily on an equator balanced--lief he would be as so to--tying an endorse fire--kill mongers and conical writhers. 

They all wanted an attention so inconceivable that none would be given. If they wanted a piece of solitude (him), they’d have asked for it. If they wanted one enemy nemesis that would swindle, gyp, bamboozled their sense of morality and shamelessness, leave them hoodwinked at such a rabid choice. And they would tell him, “Go get a boylessness-holder, I’d reckon your interest is a degradation of sorts, but lassies won’t come to you, polymer--tarter your plucking!”

But what if he was so nonpartisan or disinterested that such stupidity was an ignorance for him? He did not want them! He did not want one at all, if every single one cared about matters of uselessness, their cosmetics and woven fabric person creature heel covers and hair sun-blockers and specialty materials of the human leaves! And friendship! He’d disregard their callings of misbehaviour.

“You needn’t listen to them, and I think, they seldom want anything to do about half a buck’s worth pint and inch of your blood and skin.”

“And you have asked them yourself? I suppose you have rambled an idea so grand; a device that can alter your perception of the inner gears and screws of their thinking organs?”

“Not so. I’d hope. But I can imagine I’d have one, either way I’d be right, you hadn’t a figure to see.”

But Paris was alluring--pacifistic and iconic, cipher--limbo and chipping.

“Mind if we drink some juice of the lemon?”

“Mind not.”

There she would do so, once again! It happened often--certainly, in fact, the circumstances needn’t to be necessary. She would check the doorknob--lock and pick--it was! Then again. It was! And each time she struggled to stop and each time he could hear her anxiety through her thinking organ bone shield--ah! Make it stop! 

He would inquire why but she would shut him up. To the stove next--yes, it was turned off. Turning it on and off wasn’t an excitement or pleasure to her but she spent an hour doing so, hundreds of times. He would watch her silently as he drank his juice of the lemon. 

“I want you to be safe.”

“Me?” The boy did not know that. He supposed that was sugary to his blood pump but he would never be able to tell--yet he could. But he didn’t, because he couldn’t. 

“Yes.”

“You do so hundreds of times. Even if you know the outcome.”

“One can never be too safe.”

“And you count your steps in the yard, every day. That?”

And she would burst into tears and fall into his clasp and yell and scream and he would say not to, but she would! She really would! And he hated when stop wasn’t the signal that made the occurrence happen, and force needed an arrival, but this was Paris--and therefore dabbing a heralds of quake--humbled by the apparatus of sim. 

“I cannot stop! I hope you understand,” she would cry. 

“Aye, so help is feeble in such a situation then.”

An alloy was never strong enough--that is, unless it was. Washability and surfaceness was a retirement of dragon, and its opaque and fixing shape would allude its poise. If she would spend hours a day checking the lock of every room then, so be it--hereby, an insufficiency of anything would be a desolate future, but mothers never left their children behind (unless they did, once again).

Such an eccentric view of the world--he could only see in his optical nerves, and such egocentrism was nevertheless truth--the emancipation of his man state would free never, his purity would leave him ecstatic, but not the senses. How could he not be the only person known to exist--evidence shown was that he was--what he saw through his own optical nerves would be all he would ever see--what he heard with his hearing organs would be all he would ever hear--and perception of another would never happen, more or less--if he had hurt Paris only his imagination would be hurt, the unfeasible and incorporeal sphere of rock and water he was in--this was what he had felt all through childhood--such darling scribblers would fail to conceptualize it, and he would never masticate such clerical outlooks, for the darlings would call him pretentious with his fanciness and verbal grandiose (which was false, and he was pretentious, he would never admit it though), a revision was unnecessary but at times it felt like it was--and he knew it was but it wasn’t--yet it was. And yet, it wasn’t. 

Conduit efficiency--breaking was a seldomness--but the distribution of his attitudinal powers was a degree of esteem held by a rope that would chain the the chain rope. One was stronger, he knew--it would be no question which but he failed to realize such. 

So one day he told Paris, “I will go to the store and get us a tiny piece of flesh and bone that will contain multiplying cells due to the prometaanatelo of mitosis and will increase in size as we feed it certain and specific materialistic foods.” 

“Ask your mother.”

It would be such an excitement, and Paris had already agreed that it was a scenario she could live with--she would help him. Mother--he went.

“Mother, I would like to purchase a person creature at an early stage of sentience force. Paris and I will have it.”

“Babies are not bought from a store, my dear boy.”

“And so?” He had thought so--it was such logical reasoning--anything new and recently modernly developed he had not seen before in his space of living built by bricks and mortar and wood that had been traded for with paper currency at another structure designed for the task itself was from one. There had been a, “baby,” section at the area. His lack of understanding was imminent, prudent, yet rational. 

“When you mail a letter to this specific address, a stork will deliver.”

A seemingly clever way at it, he supposed--and he knew that wasn’t quite it, and it involved the intimacy of two individuals willing--oh, never mind--what did he know? 

“I want him or her to have a scar on his left wrist,” said Paris, directing a perfectly aimed sign of emotion--a smile--at him, an interpreter clue that he would not register at all. “And I don’t want him or her to check if the door is locked and if the stove is off hundreds of times every day without an ability of control over such randomness.” And then she would cry a few more tears at so--yell and scream a bit more--then stop and smile. Strangeness he perceived. 

Quite the relativity of a demolitionist--the stork never came and they were sad but the rain did--granger his fields--Oi! Fumbling the torso of magnitudes centrifugal energy of lighten terraform--jesters danced, likings of told, cambering and ambling and oh, so loud! The traffics of commercing was a dastardly famous path for distinct, peculiar, discretion persons.

Belie, those were the days--misfortune would have his head, mountains of crumbling heaps, heaps of crumbling mountains, crumbles of heaping mountains, crumbles of mountainous heaps. One more, he would presume, but diffusion was a paged essential to the vacation of his internal proficiency, adeptness--telecommunications and notorious lustration of translucent supernaturalistic.

What ached his mind--a grand sense of solitariness. The possibility that everyone would live until twenty thousand was positioned since his optics had not yet seen death--and cavities would meld his blood pump ravenously--crows did not care if their food was alive. 

Brevity and conduct--doctrinal and infusing, varsity would take its place--repetitions of his balderdash blarney were unseating and boringness filled such a gaping hole--one that he beheld to himself. But he would do a hobbyist activity for himself! None needn’t a critique of his magnificence that he called so himself. Nonsensical was what he despised but it was what he lived by.

And an understanding of greatness of sorts--one many wouldn’t know--a percentage of tininess--but the pilgrimage of joy was a selection of preference, and personality was a conducting factor of such a relevance of life. Tubular was it that the crimson sparks of torchlight was not even a shade of polarity that resembled its master ignition--one would say yes, the other no, the other I don’t know--although such rent--and teddies, ah! Scrambling for sense in a world where he’d find none. A presentation of all us. 

Fran gold. Vestibular was he so that rendered was a vesicular eruption of magnetism due to the lack of her pruned and statuary, statically foxhole. And it would go down and down but never up--he wished it went up, he did, but no. It never did. What ever so did? Nothing. 

He did not need anyone to like him--he never did. And most didn’t--should, good--he was stoic and stout, mildly brave and doused by gravity--he contained no prose but no ghetto was present, freedom reigned. What was a simple fracture--stagnant, enigma--what he was, of course. The days of grace from its heightened precipice, no mongrels allowed!--bear in mind the allegiance of a congregation, awareness--shout in mind--encumbering his speech of walking, doing--though uncouth he’d misalign. Such an entailment of his actions. 

He’d like not to be the influenced--the influencer, rather--an overly and boggling impassive one. That was the epitome of perfection. There! The wise creature that sought nothing but out of his condition--everyone loved him for he knew the truths that others would never conceive--the ones that they would never would have dived into with their frail, enervated, incapable, debilitated and intellectual consciousnesses of their thinking organs. Incapacitated were their wills and abilities. He would be the prospect teller, the overture. 

Acquiescence was due and formidable, opponents wheedled their entrance and weld. Interlock and sectors ridden, past the fat and yearnings hidden. Such a precocious rebrand of his term, a described future of his estate viability and compos mentis. If he was an imposter, he’d say so--he never would, in fact--yet he would’ve’d. And then wouldn’t’ve’d. Such colloquialness, he supposed--aye, he liked it so sometimes. 

Blarney and dust collection--prompts would not be prompted--and his triumphant acquaintances, so noisy! As if his caring was at a max level they thought needed to be satisfied. That was what happened in an aggregated municipality--the pulsar in the night sky though--an accustomed, ecclesiastical--if one were to intercept and fathom his eccentric jargon of nonexistence (since it had no corporeality) then the plated and internally stabbed--painful, it was, yes--overwhelming stigma of his old lay dormant in an ocean of artistic parsimoniousness--scrimped they’d call--woe him--tanks and cannons would never bother such a self--no firepower would. No inside gunpowder would either. His elapsed trinity of polished triage had been amalgamated by none other than himself. He’d smile at that and think much of himself--impressive, boy--then think that others would try to steal it. Let them try! He would scream. Let them try!

Parsing was not required--he wanted it to be--beats the red and the dime he reckoned--qualifiable? Chance a chance a chance. Wholeheartedly--he wasn’t--exposition was worthy--unconditional intense-fondness was impossible--and the truants that walked the oblong barrier of imprisonment and force pulled toward the centre of blankness.

It was a common courtesy to follow back that some did not do--ashamed he wanted them felt--but emotions would go undetected as the usual. Its visibility--waving flag--picked you up and dropped you, uncaring of the future state of your sentience force. Commencing, although, took skill--anything. Even the opposite. 

Spellbound suited him--consternation at its finest would own him--lapses of faith and person creature theology--a verdict of demising body organs failure--sully his all. Unwittingly and inadvertently--his reprimanding of consonance--benevolence suited reclusiveness--thriving perpetuations of dehumanization--subversion accompanied him. Sputum on his bath and hath his mediocracy--wrath and fame. The nonentities of modern life--the falsity of all. 

And so one day he had asked Paris, “Why is that if you were not called Paris, and you were called something else, nothing would change and I would still live life with you as now and your opportunities would stay the same and everything else and everything. You can have no name and I’d still know you as Paris.”

“Sporadically, it’d be the same for anyone, and is it pardonable--possibly.”

Quite true--but such an inchoate topic was suggestive in its means of alteration by person creature comrades. His fanfare of eloquence would serve as a magnificent and exemplary ordeal. If he reached out to use the vernacular of his fellows, a motif that wouldn’t suit his desires (obviously), then in his vicinity there would be cries of pain at such ancient articulation--a circumstantial circuit of advocacy, impalement, and inane voice. 

The slightest feint would be faint--the faintest--and he would remain his insularity of regularity--a secondhand and subsequent imputation of sorts connected to his disclosure resonance. 

“I’d say if I wasn’t called Paris, I’d still be Paris.”

“Is what I meant, so.”

She would stifle a yawn just so she could hear what he had to say next--something he noticed that others would never--then allow herself to once enough time had passed. 

“I live by my own ness.”

She would not reply to that, only stare off into the distance at the fading sunlight. But quantum frizzers and wisecracked whizzers. And through silence they’d go. He had something to say about that though.

“If there was something I had to say right now, I would say it now.”

“Perhaps that was what you wanted to say?”

Perhaps so--he couldn’t deny that--and he befell such dreaminess. But it was so perfect. Look! Outlook, windward, fray the old light ball that set upon person creature heads and less-small plants’ heads and uprisings of dominance. 

“I can’t quite say what I’ve been wanting to say,” he would tell her in that moment. And that was something he told everyone, because he just could never explain what he wanted to explain.

“And that is?”

“I don’t know. I’d like to say a heavenly calling of a magnitude unstable in the minds of a person but not a special deity but the truth is what lies out there that we will never understand is impossible to. Strange feelings.”

What was sentience force and what defined it? How did it work, how and why did it exist, why did it contain value and preciousness--why did his father and mother tell him not to cross the street before looking both ways--why did they not allow him to go alone in a dark road in an uncharted zone why did they not allow him to go rock climbing as the other tiny people why did they not let him climb a tree he did not know. Why, why, why? If he did and his sentience force came to an end then why was that such a tragedy?

He’d experience such, though--and Paris would congratulate his orderly birth-giver. His father had once strangulated an animal for his luxury of life--a burden, he called it, in fact--and he’d once yanked him off the ground after an amazingly disastrously zooming car that blurred horrendously at the certain speeds it liked and he’d not thank since he did not want to--he never did. Yet he did. 

Such a gift of his father--the old man’d be there when he grew upwards and now--forever, a term he liked but didn’t. He’d protect and attack for a sake and save his soul. That was his duty as a holder of a child of his own. But it was unconditional--he did not need to. Yet he did. 

They’re all born thinking the world is all there is and that it is the epitome of existence as children--all of them. The wake-up-juice drinkers--his kind, the person creatures. Then realize science evolved them into them particularly and proved: they are tiny insignificant specks in the cosmos and simply animals that know. But can die too and are practically and virtually and substantially unimportant. That was the cry of humanity. And it would never cease. Never. 

Highway--wondered about where each one was going, what people they were, how many of them. Did they like cupcakes and cry when they stepped on butterflies (watch--a magnificent one!) like sweet Paris or were rarities of wisdom such as him? Did they push you into ditches like Eli or stated a watchful guardian, a malevolent curator, preserver of tiny people sentience force as his father heeded? Were there reckless, cunning, humorous, ideals of person creature existentialisms? Theories of nature of them? And one by one--there were so many yet misguided--he did not know the intent of each and the final destination of each but what he did know was that he saw them now, on the highway, passing by--and there would be no other time he would see the exact same sight his optical sensors saw at the time of three-fifty-two in the afternoon. And only through his eyes as well--Paris would see a different scale and view--they needn’t compare as they were so close it was an effort to make distinctions if they shall--yet his angled degrees were shifted ever so much. 

Gaslighted and endurance-filled trams--shells of spirit and song. Washing power winds of liquid and illions of minuscule (a child as him would think microscopic) rocks. 

They’d be putting their feet in there as he would open his mouth--and she would say, “Dare you not!”

She always knew when he was to continue something before, yet she seldom stopped him when he would so he did. 

“Your name isn’t everything at once. It’s Paris. If it were something else, it would be that else, but then it wouldn’t be Paris. So what can you be called that is everything at once? All combinations, all representations, and so much everything that it is impossible to dislike you--your name is everyone’s taste. Yet, you can still be hated.”

“I can’t stand.”

“Oh, bear the telltales of namesake, my sweet.”

“Softening paper doesn’t make it wet. Yet wetting paper makes it softened. If such irreversibility exists then I’d say rip the old telltale--if I were unnamed and renamed to something else I’d be softened. I don’t want to be softened--I’ll be easier to rip. No one does, in fact. Yet everyone ends up it. But it’s that wanting of hardness that all person creatures desire and they never get it. They always stay human and cry in their rooms about it, wail, wail, wail! Horrible wail! Misery, that’s all.”

Home they’d go next and eat their energy-induced sun fuel. The boy called his: flightless wonders (the breast, which was dry in his judgement) and the girl would call hers meat. Then he’d be ready to ride and his wheels would roll a distance before needing the fuel again--such a limiting frenzy--limited onuses he hated. Cells and ligatures and bindings and the fluid resistance that reduced conductivity strayed. 

The plethora of madness would have no resolution--how many forevers would it take to reach?--the conclusion of suffering and the dissonance of the rash harassments of life--when would it all stop, he wondered. And it did, in his mind--no, in his mind, he sought perfection and that was what he saw--everywhere he looked he saw thousand-year-olds and million-year-olds and decillion-year-olds and they never seemed to die. And it would only get better from there. But he wanted them to die. He wanted them to so they’d have a reason to be scared, have a reason to be sad, have a reason to be happy--have a reason to be. Have a reason to love, have a reason to hate, have a reason to. Without death there would be no reason.

Such a daunting task it was to. And his innateness or pureness was defined by the characteristic properties of his own. His ness was a term that described his inner and outer forms of self--and one would have it--in fact, all would have it, just never an anthem to guide it--but a philosophy maintained its regards doubtless of its popularity and boycott the hexing, virulent, dramatic, supposed arbiters--the onslaught and seizures of periscopic echoes in chambers would only and merely hoax its seemingly enthralling condolences that were all but imitative forgeries. 

The orbiters that stayed around the audit of earthiness would leniently, inherently, and omnipresently with utter omnipresence repair its coda. Consolidation would have its compromise, only after the composition of empyrean enlightening truthiness. Through celestial bewilderment, such things were findable and he was a fortunate example. Dashingly--dainty--prized possession--and the mouse would eats its cheese whether knowing it was called cheese, or not. That was how he saw all person creatures except for him and and it was disgusting how they lived with it when he couldn’t but they did and he knew it yet he didn’t and he wanted to and wished he could but he didn’t yet he did yet he didn’t--he wanted so badly to know everything eternal but he didn’t know and he never did. Such a substantial annoyance. But graceful and etherealness was a beauty yet so unforgiving in its desire to share its secrecy. Aye, pain it held--and none other but pathos for his despair that he rightfully owned. He was distressed--yet he wasn’t--yet he was, and he knew it. 

After the beach they washed their feet with water to get the sand off. Seemingly normal enough. To others, perhaps. Eat--fruit--cereal--chair--sit--relax--talk. 

“What do you want to talk about?”

If one would start a conversation like such it was a doomed one to begin with, for he could not answer when he already could not start the conversation himself. But he did answer. 

“Nothing. I want to watch the clock second hand.” And he did. And she watched him did. And she did not enjoy but he did not care because this mattered to him and not to her--she went to check if the door was locked then--one out of a hundred. Two out of a hundred. Then the stove after, he knew--they had to be safe--she could not stop herself anyway--and the intrusive thinking organ receptions and original creativities would diffuse a sickness and engird in darkness such wondrous beauty of her. Poor, sweet Paris--shame. Help he wished--he couldn’t--true that gritty gristle. And the rain fell, began--and the tender thunder boomed--and the rash lightning ensued--and the boy yelled, “Oh! What pathetic fallacy! You hear?” And Paris would frown and know he was right and then go back to the table and help him contently but sadly stare at the second hand. Such unsoundness and deep confusion of modified, modest, moodily mantel mystery mares. Tis true! He had experienced so himself! One would question, yes. 

Then Paris would see something had went wrong in him--the second hand had stopped--the clock broken a possibility--and he just sat there. And shivered. A moment of silence passed as he shivered violently and brutally some more and shrugged her hand off his shoulder. Then he screamed. A deep, wholehearted bellow of cry of anguish, disconsolateness. Melancholy, wretchedness, defeatism! He screamed and screamed! Oh, the pain! Stop the pain! It was TOO MUCH! He screamed louder!

“Make it go!”

“You know I cannot,” said Paris gloomily. Her expression--it merely singlehandedly proved more of its truthful worsening.

Spirals of colour in his vision and the reprimanding of his vision and sanity--head clenched--out the door. 

“Hold!” Paris called and went after--and he didn’t want to get soaked but he would because he had chosen to go outside and that was what he wanted but he didn’t want to get soaked but he would because he had chosen to go outside and that was what he wanted. Angrily stepping out and stomping with absolute fury in the booming downpour of his misery. That was the easiest method to describe it. 

“This time, I want to be left alone.”

Repetitiveness and urgencies--she would not do so anyway--for she cared--and he liked that but he didn’t--yet he did. 

“How can I? The second hand is not moving. According to you I cannot move.”

“Yet you are. I don’t get it, Paris. I simply don’t get it, Paris. Momentum and relativity and continuum of an abstract theoretical idea has come to a stop and yet I can move and you can move and we can speak and the droplets of a common liquid we need to survive hasn’t stopped descending its cascade and by the time this talk is over I’d be back in my house needn’t of a ness as though because of the fact. Why does the world still go, Paris? And why must it?”

“I do not know.”

And the boy would get really mad and burst into tears and it would be unknown to Paris because of the current weather. Then he would throw a massive tantrum that would shake the paradises (which he sought but never knew he wouldn’t achieve--false, he knew) and storm off as the storm coughed. The following of Paris--he knew--he had given a warning. Doused in rain and thunder--darkness path--unbeknownst of plan. Mother angry in future--mundane those guilty opossums! If the second hand would not tick--all lost. He would not either to avenge his themed anthem ness. 

He was weary. That was all. 

Most would say of everything--world, sentience force, actuality and oppositional fantasy--uselessnesses and unreasonablenesses--falling sands--loneliness. The animation of conscious persons and the threat of death itself--both overwhelming concerns that he believed shan’t be regarded as simple and mere person creatures--thinking organs supreme enough, no. 

Silly ambience! Once at the cry of such blamelessness (in a time of desperation) he had worn his new shoes--proud he was--and the adults, one said, “Pal! I like your shoes.” And he would beam and--day made--reply that he was thankful of a flattering remark. “Thanks! My mother stole them from the store and I like them very much as well!” Odd look they’d give--odd he would be left in a state of--and that was it. Leaving was next.

Such exchanges were transcends--surpasses--when he reached the growing point all wanted to hopefully one day reach, of course. He enjoyed the time that he had now when he could easily say, “Hey, I admire your bracelet! Want to come over and eat apple pie (nothing it was, he knew)?”

“Why yes, of course. Sure!” Then they would be friends ever since and they’d laugh at how it had all began. Simplicity was finest at that stage. Adults: no, wrong. Working that way was not how it was. And he’d ask why could it not be and they would have no answer. He wished it would be that--and he knew it wasn’t--yet he wanted it to be. Shame. Pitiful. Arrogant mis-findings. False and like a phone and trust that nothing!

Tinges of peril in his wake--atonement and believability would still his fullness. Droll was the resuming of quality tolerance--bards would estimate their wing times, lifeboats would carry the wight of captivation when his will would not and the failing of organs would arrive. The antics would curve--shadows were not light--and fazed was his understanding of rampancy and rifeness. If an element presumed his fate of rampancy into nothingness then so be his wandering strand of might. Twas a trailing failure. Subtly and vaguely would be his saviour.

Stumbling and trembling. Valorous and vintage sense perceptions. The vigilante fusion was--incredible--patriotism for his dignity and defiance--none to appeal to the masses. And the dust would settle only after. Midst of the mist--he did so every day and never got tired of it--live. Somehow, too. A mystery.

There was no tragedy which was why he was mad. Perfection never ceased and it was all so blatantly and proportionately hollow--inconsequential. And he was so ridiculed and torn--unstable in his longing for helplessness in achieving a person creature, normal--average and typical taste of what they wanted--a shape of perfection and he was tired of it. Both individuals--set on their paths of delusion--his forlornness would not stray from him now--and he was tired of not being flawless, tired of seeing others not being flawless--most of all, tired that he would never get someone with a minimality of them. With applicable and desirable, roundness and a graciousness of a morality of righteousness and incontinent, indecent prurience. The itch of approval from his instructors and their illicit jumbles of recondite ostiaries of watchmen--stewards of the angelic. Everything was untrue--fabricated, erroneous--sleeve the tight rendering of fictitious consonants and gamble the wrathful idolatry of circumstantial irregularity. 

He was fretful, no. As a child--wake up--put his shoes on with the awe of a thousand suffering soils that he would crush on. Stare at the moonlight and ask why it was there. He never seemed to know. And when he would ask Paris she’d say it came from outer space, as giant rocks that collided into its exhibition--how ignorant--and they collected into an orbital satellite that guided travellers but he would ask once again, “Why was it there?”

“I told you already,” she said, confused. 

“How is different than why.”

Then they would never find out, supposedly. That was fine with him--false, no. But yet it was, because if he knew why it was there he’d faint with the daunting terror of unfathomable analfesicicy. 

He and his works would remain a conformance and abiding esoteric--a probable this--he mustn’t care of a fraudulent’s opinion. His esoterica would be truthful and unwavering in its potential yet blind men would be the first to see it and wander in its abatable and debatable glory. That was how it would be--that was how it always was, and he hated it. He always had. Refinement--defining of success--not up to him, no. It never was. 

Reciprocate sternness--the dancing flames--living in peace the seniority of the father and son relaxed and in harmony in the room silently and unaanounccing of each presence yet so much doting--affection in the dispensed and reversed intense atmospheric scenery. Synthesizes of dialect were averted from squandering juvenilia. Hexaloia protrudent--absolutely and profoundly--vigorously--appalling. Juvenoia, paranoia, the fears of the darn old and new--the tears of the crying children--save them all! Isotopic lavishness, sumptuousness--the deluging of the newcomers would indulge in its rightful enemies that stood a withstanding approximation of winded trite and salvation destination. Contributions of welfare from the standings of the condolent sorrows--by the ill-fated condemned--star-struck and standstills would overcome the illusion of terrorism in the blood pumps of those that understood the fragile trope. Unbelievable it truly was but one would not argue if one was content.

Filthy scumbags they were! Less than average, clinically stupid alienations that rolled in mud all day. Their cries were heard but ignored--their begs were understood but disposed of. Fault--was it theirs--or were it the conditions that were set upon them throughout their lives?

Such chaos--utter pandemonium and yet he believed it would never get any better and so he and his billions of acquaintances were at the summit pinnacle of the apex. Sadness--failing of the blood pump--and the sedation of madness slowly coming across the land of outside person creature. Painting pictures were hardly a difficult task--suppressing them to the clinically insane were, for they--though they were enterprising in their ways--never stopped and that was a problem because two worlds weren’t possible or worth living in at the same clock second hand point.

Sea basilisks did not wane, although--and they waded through the wafters if they had to, having a tendency to cry out through the red person creature juice. Since creatures in the night salivated at the leftovers. 

Switch off--if there was a possibility of having the inability to receive distractions, for they were incessant in their futile attempts--annoyance to the max--even the most disciplined one’d say was immune to their intrepid and unflinching effects but they weren’t--the truth was. They had to ingest a multitude of times during the day and release that unwanted matter--they had to turn off their car engines in their sleep conductors. Aye! The pain of it all--an increasing magnitude of displeasure and commitment.

Outgoing--he could be--but he never did, because he didn’t want to--and he couldn’t--yet he could. But time would pass and he would realize--nothing closely in relation to it he had done. The next day, repeat. Inspiration wasn’t enough. It never was--a drive would stay compelling, perhaps. That was something constant, instead.

Follicles of advocation and negation of attributes. The adequate poser, he was--reverently tie solemnity. The epithet of the economically disadvantaged--resolving his seismic indigence, the spans of his accountability would be an impeccable, prolific prowler. Their infidelity--stay a collider--unwarranted that deprivation of abolishment--tinder the denigrated resignation of the ensuing tirade of macing harsh captivity--revered, relativism--immortal. Cue the indignant indigos. 

Derided from aesthetic merit--subjection the leader of understandings and accomplishment paths, never not. 

The vast expanse of the cosmos was full of many unique and extraterrestrial things; swirling masses of enigmatic energy, vibrant and colourful celestial bodies, and the shining of the flaming spheres of light. Tribulation, postmodern, forerunner, influential--his forefront of amass was far from humble yet so near, immensely opposite yet not. Idiocy was neither corpulent nor satisfactory--the crayons of the world--an elegance that produced allegiance. He always never wanted to abide to the instinctual rules of his hereby thinking organ. Who did? Such ness was a matter of phase. One of total lack of it.

But enjoyment was titular, eponymous--and so favoured and vogue of a time when existence existed. Ah! The dragging of luthiers of epic.

Sagas never had a reason to end yet they did.

Clefs--the farcical connoisseur, ballistic--fresh in his mind were the days of freedom and solitude, yes--ahistorical and anachronistic--the semblance of nascence. Contrivance and the elusion of dangerous tardiness. The incredibly impeccable and outstandingly punctual timing. Eerie panorama would’ve thunk, cardinal, unmitigated, temerity. The integrity, idealist. Everything in the world was either an apple pie, or not an apple pie. This self-evident cynicalness of his faith in person creature kind and his abundance of fear and distrust for its future--understandable, insurmountable, unfixable. Alabaster conundrum, a presentable query. 

Before the stipulation needed to advert an ascent into normality (but a descent into immorality) he needed a potent aphrodisiac but such a willingness was so abhorrent to his diagnostic taste of cultivation. An appeasement would it be--evisceration of oblivion and atonement--the vehemence of his revolutionized and poignant sleep-visions of grand delirium. His taut idiom oughta his malevolence and if he would say so then it would be so for he was the only person creature in the entire water-covered rock-ball or so he believed and knew it wasn’t true yet he didn’t stop believing.

At a time when water was the most important--wake and rest would shallow themselves--but now water was a side advantage and sometimes an inconvenience to the design of body. 

So daunting was he that he sought the casting of aloneness and reverence of the thing--most people threw away he knew--that he had. No, they did not know. They never did. The “pal” callers with the cold hands. 

“When I grow up, Paris,” he said, “I will live in a tiny shack in the middle of nowhere in the very north. I will feed my yaks and get water from the well and snow. I will watch every sunrise and every sunset and silently watch the thunderstorms and blizzard snowstorms. I will wake up and walk outside to see my breath materializing in the air in front of me as I thank the new day and see the snow-capped evergreen trees and the rising sun and the chirping birds. That is my calling, my fantasy of blissfulness.”

And so she would ask, “Why?”

He would take a multitude of forevers to answer the inquiry. Perhaps a statement that regarded his dislike for person creatures not of his kind (without a theme) would not be sufficient, “I do not like people,” and perhaps he truly did not understand or know but one thing he knew was that he had a reason and that he could not explain, naturally and expected, and she would understand but then she would ask again later on and forget that he wasn’t good at explaining things well but he had no choice and she had no choice also but to understand that he didn’t explain things well but even though he would say that again later on she would ask once more and he would have to say again yet he knew he didn’t but yet he did and he didn’t but he still had to. The priceless journeys paid for their own expenses. 

But then she would know and then she would say, “Alright.” And they would be eating cookies but he would rather not and chop firewood by his yaks in the north. And he did not like loneliness but he sought after it every day--he did not know what he wanted, no, he never did--but yet no one else in the water-covered rock-ball did, so in a way he was not alone at all.

And he hated that. And if he was the only one who was alone he would hate that too.

Advancements--they came and went--but virtuous and the categorial seams would allude their respiratory awakening of thinking organ vividness of sentience force. But dawdling in the glades of life itself while livid was no fun--entrancing, yes--one argued a heresy--and so a note of highness shall be played yet it never could be if he didn’t have an instrument to project his overbearing yet endearing utterance of vocal chords inside his trachea that kept him alive in with the sea monster. He resided in melancholy downpours but never in melodrama. No, he hated that. 

And the yaks in the north were impossible to please him as he did not like such ness of banal mawkishness--he would never be glad. 

Paris said, “You will have to spend all your time to care for yourself.”

And he knew it to be true as he did not know how luxurious and comfort would be nonexistent in his fantasy that he wanted to be his fantasy but wasn’t. He knew the boundaries of his expertise in richness of normality in a modern world with opulent and posh items that one would not consider death without yet that one would be incorrect hugely--or so, it was to be tested. The waste-dispensers and liquid-giving metal pieces in the rooms of the bathed and sources of seemingly infinite photons with limited work to spark were consistent in his needs and significantly substantial in survival that one thane would never consider. 

“But that’s what I want,” he would say and then laugh then cry. Paris would hold him and: “Poor boy you are, you are a poor boy. Rich in everything else yet so poor. Perhaps in elaborateness, eloquence, less-esotericism, and feebleness. Those are all wanted by your soul of the anthem, correct? The sea monster drives on poison and virulence of madness and you were dropped in a world with none and it sickens you. Your dependence on things others don’t have--a suitable explanation of your dignified response to it--a fretful one as well--no, you hate. And that dependance you know will cost you for when you have no paper currency you will wonder how to keep your sentience force awake while others have none of it and still do. Less-traditional--that’s the cause of your putrid sense of rationalization of everything. And yonder--up the well of sentience-keeping liquid--you ponder the launder of maunder, while squandered.”

Is what frail and stale he was. The nothingness of the existential lords did not have a rejoinder that would satisfy his person creature limited boundaries of personification. They never did, and he knew it. He had to get used to such silence, and he liked to think he was--yet others were more than him, and it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair at all. A curse. 

His mother would always be summoned if there was an emergence of importance, he knew that. Then why was he so scared of the face of adverse death? But cordially, an expounding recollection of synapses that recalled visions, sounds, thoughts were--copious--ample--profuse yet utterly and variously fully translucent and what a shame it was, yes. 

Rejoicing for repayment was a salute to the seeds of knowledge and sultry was the intellectual capabilities of the messengers of gratuitous fortitudes--solicitors would be solicited--and the convent of basal etiquette inductors would terminate the particular atmosphere ether of peculiarity that translated into wed--pontifex. 

His ness was second to nothing--it would always be and he knew it yet didn’t yet did--and belief was an intercourse of extent that was impossible to agree supposedly now and with current ease of inopportuneness. Ostracized was he--and he was never sorrowful about such--in fact toward penchant for--yet he was never the opposite either, at least never completely. Perchance was the eventful diatribe of lightened secretions. The proof of concept was never consented by his favour and the disadvantages that could be whelmed by the cold-handers! Oh, such ingloriousness. 

When he would stay illustrious in his journey he would admit an aversion. But an unstableness of sacrifice would endure long moments of succumbed agelessness. If his benevolence would be arced in a tumbling tallness--silenter would be his conscience of openness, an epoch of crash cards. Arbitration--connivance--floundering messes--all that sought destiny. The abortion of countenance in his name--a bother it was not. It never was, never would be. 

Always a postponement--qualms and beseech the breach of favouring services. Venerable was what he wanted to be. He would not get it if selling himself was a rarity of his actions. Whilst he was a young boy he would remain grand in thought and power. That was all young boys said and thought but he was assured not this time--a difference, surely, he was--of course he was! How could he not be? No, he was important, and time would reveal why. And procrastination was a heathen to his formalities--the infidels and their dingus ways. 

His soliloquies were abundant, numerous--redundancy was an erroneous in his eyes, yes--intrinsically yet belligerently his, thought eloping would get him in devious trouble one day--his undulating and meandering tactility of nothingness would stray him from his desires. But the retributive functions of his innerness were of malignity and their secular fits of diluted astral energies of space would conceive the ideal concept of his perfect formulation. Rosettes and cassettes in his honour when his end of sentience force would come, and the time when his recollection of synapses that recalled visions, sounds, thoughts would come to a halt then only then would his legacy unfold, as did for all. All the variants of ease would not suit him. 

People he did not like--no tolerance of exigence would please their savours--but success was defined by how many people were into your ness--hence his wanting of fame but his dislike of it--and a grandness was titular decided not by you which he thought was unfair but not so.

When he saw people far away on the walk side he could never know if they were coming toward him or away. It would always be like that, and for everyone. The two-wheelers with secondary skulls, the weight-losers, the park-amblers, the stroller-pushers, the workers. He would want them to actually appear and be that they came toward him but then he would have to meet their eyes and expect a greeting of sort--so then he would want them to actually have their backs turned and he would catch up since he was a fast walker--but then he would have to go past them or trail behind slowly in patience which was an annoyance. 

And he told all of this to Paris. 

“I do not understand your decision to reject every request of friendship but I solely agree with the terms of everyone’s personal judgement of the scheme of things,” she said. 

It was true. The boy had many person creatures with full skeletal, muscular, and nerve systems as he, that came up to him and said, “Hey, pal!” And he would always say, “I am not your pal.” Hundreds of them, in fact. If this was the crowd he aimed to please then he had to start pleasing them now. 

Unimaginable things propelled them forward--and every one of them born would try their very best to devote their measly time-limited sentience force to contribute to those goals of technological and spiritual enlightenment. And it was all so useless because if one day their contributions enabled their dreams then they would never see it for sentience force was truthfully time-limited, which haunted most to the point of miserableness. 

The sounds of the city would whelm his divulgement. Weaving the lines and--Egad! He pitied them all. And Paris would say not to be so self-centered and he would ignore her yet he knew he shouldn’t yet he did. He would shout it from the rooftops and the highlands until all would hear!

“If one does not have a desire to seek true profundity, one is not a human being.”

His value for depth of insightful knowledge to the person creatureliness and all things platonic--insurmountable, unchangeable--and his intense-fondness for it would be fanatical always. Never not, no.

There would be no landlord to scrub up to, unlike before. If his deficiency of eyesight held his omnipotence of intricacy, he would believe that there was and he had to pay his goods in fuel made of grains and potatoes. Never cows’ meat, no. The chaste symposium of his own--the one that others hated for their purely superficial views--his doldrums certainly arrived spontaneously. Predicting them--there would be none--if only. Once again--platonically. Avant-garde and shibboleth--all that nonsense that made him full false poseur. Being avid in monumental elusiveness, there would be no explanation to his searchings but those who wanted one would always be disappointed and then would complain but he had no help. 

“Readapt that stupidity and uncanny buzzwordvomit, you’ll withstand zero seconds to become one rambunctious wino,” they said, but usually his mother and father who were never proud of him--seemingly--and of course--he would hate them if they were. 

But his exuberance was plain and simple and did not need any attention--by no means was it critical to anyone’s survival but yet others’ words were and he did not understand. Curse the rock-ball! 

Henceforth, he would strive--and strive would he. But his dreams of a hyperborean time with his yaks--they would never leave although he was out of his time for that yet he wasn’t and he knew that yet he was. Racing and riding waves--unreal but real. How could such lightness not break under the weight of a creature? If he was to be the wave then he would not let the creature on him fall--absence of intellectual realness and opposite to lack of obsceneness. Exceptionalism was always valued in the world--yet those who had it never received fame and those who thought they did--as the rest of the rock-ball--they did. But unfairness was a duty of every. No! It wasn’t! He did not want to believe so! If they told him where they came from he’d yearn for the ableist, untainted. And alas, ultimately, his mannerism would be a nuisance. No less of a nuance also. His antiquated discourse, his antiquated inner tribunal--scarlet seas and red tides of chasing balls of fire/spheres of light and coldness of the commemoration of lavender cavaliers. 

The creases of his likewise accommodations. They grew by the day. And where they were told form he did not know. Unsealable, unhealable--his condition--if he were to be the lively harbinger of inseparable adamancy he would be good at his career of sorts. Once more, lions had to be fed. 

Drum, drum, drum--and it would never stop. All sorrows tied in a cicerone, yes. Such anticlimactic proportions of the pesky genocide of those who mattered most to the forward propulsion of the conciseness of sustainability on the rock-ball. 

He wanted to eternally be his best self--he wanted to live a life that when he would look back it would be the epitome of perfection and flawlessness. No mistakes. But he had eaten cookies with Paris at the table--how could he be perceived as a legend when he had done that? He had begged for occupation appointments--how would he ever reach his understandable yet extremely unrealistic goal of fortune? Yet the considered legends went through his shoes and his shoes did not smell--a picaresque of prelude. An example of total normality would never think so--“What a fine gentleman that was once poor and the world only thinks of him so high and mighty.” That was a problem he contrived in his thinking organ. That if you answered ten thousand questions correctly and made a mistake on one, they’d criticize you for that one, ignoring the correctness of the others. Then your value as a person creature would be weighted on that astonishing singular failure. 

Propositional seasons of emotional reflection that seemed mythical and yet what if it was not? A visceral thrill would it be to gain that outwardness from a boylessness-holder--ah! All that came to his mind nowadays--the rest was above or below--and relation was negative to the ones that he wanted to be. And he wanted absolutism. 

Absolutism. 

And totality. The beam of light and the silent serenity of the calmness tirade--enticing in its extravagant appearance of totality. They were symbols of nonexistent nonsense and existent nonsense. This was a symbol for they would say and he wanted to but if his mission failed to complete they would never. 

“What are you writing?” asked Paris one day. 

In a quick effort to hide even a glimpse he shoved his entire table over and spilled his drink all over the floor--inside--it would be floor, he remembered, not ground. 

“Why are you mad?”
No, no, no! She had perceived such wrongness and he hated that! He did not think she was like that!

“But it isn’t because you are. I know you are not. It is something else.” And all would be repented. 

She had caught a glimpse, of course--he saw it in her eyes. Cosmos. That was what she had seen.

She smiled though and that induced laughter in him--he could not control himself, he wished he could--then he stomped his foot and Paris knew he hated her making him laugh and then she would raise her shoulders for a second before them coming back down--unknowingness, the sign, he interpreted (proud of it, as well) and then simply go to the kitchen to check if the knob was fully turned all the way off or else he would be hurt. She did not want him hurt. And he wanted her hurt--just not, it wasn’t true. But he wished it was true because tragedy was a rarity and he knew so--not saying boringness--he would be arrogant to do so--yet he was anyway. And he knew it.

The Ancient Knowingness of the expanse of the unknown belittled them all. 

He wished his works to be posthumous, like everyone else, and he didn’t want to be like everyone else so that was what saddened him deeply. His own opinion held the most value--for everyone, never not. He was admonished--his blasphemy and faked bombast, turgidity, grandiloquence, pomposity, verbosity, prolixity--the synonyms of his innerness. His ness was scathingly assessed every day by those who had the nerve to be critics themselves, calling their experience grand enough to be an alpha over him. Everyone wished to be a legend and those who were got there through pretentious prose, false--no. Trouble find him--it always would. The intellectuals--all of them--were like him--they believed they were, they pretended they were, and then they were. That was how it was--would be. And so he was in the middle phase, and the masses would govern his third. Their legacies were deliberate--they knew it from the start. If he would do so as well, he would follow their footsteps in the snow--to that lovely place in the north with his yaks. Away from the sea monster. 

Innocuous cries of not-shallow entendres. Insinuating his edition of his favourite cerise, hence the blood of his incorporeal victims. Intangible, impalpable--were his grasp so easily reached to it but gone. 

Up the steps of the grand house of infamy. 

“What do you wish from me, uncultured swine? My bosom?”

“Cultured swine.”

“Surely. Your oxymoronic attitude will not impress me. I will take your pages of sentience force significance, pal. The ones that tell me of your deeds that represent you as a person creature. Yada--g’bye. When I need to give a call, until then, shoo with your mammary-gland-seeking ways.”

Of course, it was expected. The transcendence into adulthood was highly hackneyed--all boys were like that, and he was a boy, so he was like that. He wanted to attack the pathetic excuse but she had something he needed and so he would leave her alone. Once he would have enough he would leave her in the dust--in the same glory, he supposed--but he hoped not. 

“But the paper doesn’t signify anything,” Paris told him. “It tells her what you have done but not who you are.”

“What I have done is all she needs to know.”

“That’s not right.”

“It isn’t. Yet that is the way this rock-ball works.”

She let a stream of air out of her throat--a sign of tiresomeness, he was getting good at this--and rested her heavily-protected thinking organ that was oh so valuable upon the muscle that he controlled the extent of his arm-tool with. When he would, “shrug,” she would go up and down along with it. He told her that.

“Yes,” was all she said. 

“That is all? Such a matter of importance, and you have no desire to acknowledge it?” said him. “What is it about?”

He wanted her to say, “Aboutness.” 

The edifice--apt, rhetoric (he wished), and it was perhaps. Clunky and unsolicited--liabilities--evermore, then him languishing of vitality. The disorientation of awakening from the state of ness, it gave an aura that would last aeons. With his agape eating-speaking organ. When the hail of the ominous and explanation-less brimstone would listlessly be in its evangelical alignment, the culmination of the timely--vertigo massiveness! Dreaming, he was--in succulent turmoil. The livelihood of death was inescapable in its truthiness and tartness of nullity. 

Quintessential synchronicities and whatnot--the inception of folklore and its effect. If the plagues of yesterday were the plagues of today then--oh. My. Bad--no other. He would require an integumentary shield of sardonicism that would provide itself as a helm of equidistance--presuppose the lucidness. His thoughts were only semisubmersible, and his pursuance of peaceful paragons--never. He knew so. And yet he didn’t since he didn’t believe so. He needn’t transpose muchness, and moreover, if he did, he would be incapable of no shock. Pacifism--insomnia, wonder at night. He would not drop a single blood of the moonlight and night’s careful curtain of cape would guard him from hurtful predators. 

“Everyone experiences that,” said Paris. “The inauthenticity of the passers-by. When you’re awake at night and all you see below are the city lights and no one sees you--yet you see everyone. You’re powerful, majestic, sublime--and you’re godlike. Ultimacy in supremacy. And you think of all the wonder of the world in that moment alone in the nighttime balcony--deep in thought and lost in the very face of the planet we stand on. And you feel alive.”

Since he didn’t--a problem it was--and one that he would cry out for. And he would never say so, no--but what troubled him was that. 

If he wanted to move he would have to think it. Then the thought would command his leg to move. Then his individual muscles would have to extend and contract together. Then he would take a step forward and his skeletal frame would have to withstand the impact of the step. All so confusing and reckless and utterly complex and useless! The process of the organic creature body.

“We all come into the world deserving nothing. And if we do nothing then we shall continue to deserve nothing. We gain things that are privileges, unconditional parental love, basic human needs. If that is simply to start off, and we waste such potential energy in our stomachs, then we die for the absoluteness of emptiness.”

“My, Paris, you talk of such things.”

“I beg your pardon?”

If there was a nexus of space and time, a place that was elsewhere yet everywhere, nowhere yet somewhere, then where would it be? And if such a place existed, what would Paris say then?

“You are deep in wonderment and contemplation once more?”

“Hush, dear Paris. I will say sorry when I want to.”

“It burdens you when you try, remember? As well as saying thank you and please and have a nice day. You’re afraid of them calling you pal after.”

“Why must such muchness exist? Why must it be engrained in us?”

Learning how to act in public--if that was the way of up growing then the definition was standardized by a capability of learning. The prodigiousness would be irrelevant--diametrically wide from its counterpart of solution--he did not have a wild agenda, and he wished he had, but he didn’t, and he believed he did, but he knew he didn’t. Yet he did. Hence, he would hold a miasma of imperative jubilation that did not exist. Wherefore? Of course, if one would ask him, he did not know. Paris knew this, which was why she understood him--she did not know either, why she was herself. Why anyone was anyone’s self. She hated paraphrasing, and only buffoons with the dignity of zero would confer to that. 

The anthem would sing that day too, and he wished it to stop. He knew one day it would, inevitably--that day he both feared and longed for. Derivatives of extravagance--awry nonetheless. 

For those that slept in the snow--hitherto, they were the truants. If those that knew the true innerness of the voice of The Realness of Everything and Ancient Knowingness, they would know what to do every second of their sentience force. He liked to believe he did--didn’t us all?

The killers of The Realness of Everything and Ancient Knowingness would give him a difficult life, but he would never let them take his. The insane demise would hold such an enticing enchantment in his dreary blood pump.

“Contrary to your current remark, I shall answer every good deed with a pleasing return, as well as wishing every day to be nice after, to good sirs and good ma’am’s, as long as the sun is my witness--and to those you treacherous vermin! Scour for your ugliness, your torturous mind coutures, the feels being not an excuse, no. Never one. With you being eligible socialites, you are socially exigible. And in every human category--the catechism of the thinking organ is within itself. If you wish to seek trueness, the Ancientness of Everything and the Realness of Knowingness, then hold yourself to be oneself that is not to be able to be deemed by oneself. Admit that flawlessness is what liars would love--and that it being the focus of your idolatry is a scummy shame! Frolic in froth! Oh, such mess! Trueness and truthfulness, in spite of such failure of the billions--soon to be decillions in the future--with such longings for unrealistic vivacity, how can we advance? Yet, how can we advance without reaching for the stars instead of the moon? But niches can’t stop a group of all--let the vocations of those willing be our probation form this rock-ball! Go, forth! End this schism, my fellow brethren! Such tentatively is not advisable, accept with alacrity! May the uncharted insuperableness bolster our calamity of revolution--tithings being within--remedied our palpitations shall be! The purposed inauguratory indication--lead us, and leave the treacherous, ill-minded infidels behind! The majority! The opulence must be allocated to achieve greatness. And doing erratically comes with solemnity--there shall be no phantom heckles! When one shouts, one shouts! The behemoths of inertia want nothing but sameness, don’t you see, comrades? Keep this urtext that comes from within--from a thinking organ that thinks so high of itself, not specifically my person necessarily--and send your yarns to dryness in solitude. Aw, such bawling for I, opposite of incorrect? No! For you, truly. Apothecary prohibition was was, since of fear. The attribution of diligence propels--and all know it, yet why don’t all strive for it?”

“Perhaps they don’t put that ness at the centre of their lives,” said Paris. “Listen, I understand. I truly do! But they do not. And they never will. Do not think they will ever.”

“The greatest never thought there would be another. Yet there was. And it was because they did think there would be another.”

“Livelihood is bountiful. It is all they need, to not suffer. You need more. You--lobotomizing yourself--wanting partitions yet wanting harmonic and symphonic unity. The anthem does not do either--it is solo. Until you meet that, ‘another,’ you speak of. If it isn’t me, already. And I thought it was.”

She would leave. He wanted to stay normal--even forcing the controlling of his blood pump to do so. He knew it was of no use--they would come. And there, they came! Oh, they all came! And it hurt! One punched him in the gut--tears were the consequence. One scratched him in the back--irregular sobs the consequence. One cut him in half--absolute misery the consequence. 

Normal--he wanted to stay it. But he wouldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. But he wanted to feel right and yet he did not. He did not want to apologize--he absolutely did not want to. He absolutely didn’t. He did not. He would never! And he would never change his mind! Never!

“Paris?”

“Yes?”

“I apologize.”

Down came the rabbit in the washing den. Stream fall the rain, and the wish-wash then. Drowned after swim try, there was no use. And after all that had happened he was left obtuse. 

“Your tribute of repairing would disgust most, but not me, no. Never me.” She would do that one thing again, the one he could never explain truly or fully--but it involved the tightening of the corners of the eating organ--and the indication of happiness, he knew. Something along those lines--when he would perfect his interpretation skills, he would be proud. And Paris would be, too. 

But it was windy that day. Standing alone with the hood over his hearing organs, he watched as the mighty gusts wildly pushed her hair across the beam--shielding it from view. It is not yours to see, it screamed. Recreation, amendment--adamantly, the uncrated would stay unchartered. The incongruous debacles--unneeded--yet so immaculate! However, competence was still yet to prove. Speculative premonition was powerful--omnipresent, in fact--there was no time for vignettes. The parole of vintage attire--vintage to the max, extreme--only doused itself in illegality. How come? There was nothing inherently wrong--yet there was. And yet there wasn’t. 

Contradiction, contradictoriness--it suited no one but him and everyone but him. Ha!--he would know so himself. Why? Because he didn’t. 

The winds--he did not forget. Here they were--powerful breezes that moved things. Rustling trees, rustling grass (silent, watching, patient--aye! Such ness he did not want to engage with in turn-based assaults), hearing organs being covered by the din of rushing air--hair blown and jackets blown. And he knew when there was one--there was the other. The clock at home was ticking. 

“I can’t hear you,” said Paris, and it was true--she could not hear him--yet he said nothing. “But I am to say this: a tesseract of magnitude, it would impress some. And only some, when it should impress all. That is the problem you face. Not knowing what to do at all, feelings of worthlessness, laziness, emptiness--everyone has lived through it. That is what makes it special--that we all share a connection of importance, yet no one knows. That is what makes us the person creatures with sentience force on this rock-ball with blood pumps.”

When she would cry it would rain. When she would smile the rain would stop and a rainbow would shine. That was how it worked--and it did work. Such bossiness--not glamorous, and he liked that.

She spread a hand at the winds. “Is this the coldness you want to deal with? With your yaks in the north? By my solemn wake, you shall burn in the fiery underworld! But not die, no. Never that. This is all about miscommunication--you must know that. Of course you do, it would be the first thing you would know. To be the extroversive introvert, ambivert, with anti-social extroversion that you self-proclaim, think highly of those that are not you. Euphemistically, that means all. Including you as well, as you are not one with yourself. You have made that clear. But, perpetual ideologies do not simply disappear, cease to exist easily, and I know that. They are opposite of temporary, permanent litigiousness in its attempts at success--that being of ease and calmness in your blood pump’s anthem. But your exertion? Mandatory, yet too much! Congruence of individuals to you are your only abrasive options, methods--and you perceive them as enmities. Pity your self-counsel--it is not worthy to lead a thinking organ at all, what thoughts I shall own about it.”

“You are pessimistically perky, predictably quirky, pretty ugly, amazingly boring, coldly burning in the quake of your homestead of thinking organ decision-deciders. In fact, they reside as the epicentre of your life, controlling you.”

“I let them control me. It is part of being a person creature.”

He was silent. 

“And if you embrace such an epiphany, then you would understand. You had never--you refused to that is why. You did not want to be one of us, yet you did to get out of your state--yet our state is no better. But at least you are not alone.”

The punch in the gut came once more--the consequence too. A waterfall was unwanted by him--he would make sure it would never get to that. 

“If deep down you are shallow, then I will say this: the story of fate.”

She would begin by saying, with familiarity. 

“We arrive at this rock-ball devoid of anything, remember? Through fate, everything happens until we are at this moment. Every single birthday, incident, experience, decision. We end up with each other somehow, unexpectedly yet expectedly, and find each other in this vast world. How come? No one knows. Your decision to let that ball fall on the street by itself, and the speeding vehicle past by? That was fate--you would not be here without that decision. Your parents’ choice of school, living area, everything? They did it so we could meet. And it all is in effect of snowball--for everyone, fate affects them. If you imagine a string suspended in nothingness, that is what this so-called sentience force is. This was no mistake.”

If he wanted eulogies to be written about him, he would have to begin with the reacquaintance of the screaming silence, the loud silence, the one that had never stopped being so impervious. Deafening silence--the eeriness of such a cacophony--and its ability to have its reign taken over would require an undergoing of arduous work. In a car he would face blaring music in his ears, blaring music not in his ears but outside, ambulance noises, loud talking, drum beats. 

All the people that wanted to be--they were all so fake! Get real! At least, that was what he would say in such an ordeal--easiest way to dissipate his anger. Their moderation and lack of grand creativity was a bore that he objectively had to suffice for. While everyone was a sun, he was a moon. 

Was the misapplication of vices bad, or good? Truth is good? And for those that hated the truth? What of them? They were nevertheless hornswoggled by treacherous truthfulness--how dare it! And their sorrowful serenity would match his. Stormy to calm. 

Was it bad to accept badness? 

During the school day: “Hello pal, Devan. May I borrow a pencil?”

“I am unable to can--robot.”

“May you please help me with my homework?”

“I am unable to can--robot.”

“Welcome home, Devan. We will ingest bodily-necessary fuels later, when all existing and conventional members of our home group are around the support for objects and bodily-necessary fuel, sitting on rear-supporters. When we shall, in a few collectively-placed minutes of groups of sixty in their unfaltering march toward eternal embitterment--the failing of the organs of the body of course--may you tell us what happened in this fine, embodiment of twenty-four sixties of collectively-placed minutes of yours? Without elicitation, as well.”

“I am unable to can--robot.”

And he was programmed to do so, but essential batteries could be farewelled, and so he would fight his programming. Their masterful and intricate manipulation of their falsified realism. Ha! It would make him irate to a degree--blood pump of pureness--their conceited rears were unmanaged by simply no one--loathsome they would be. Everything he ever knew? How to explain it all, to those that were not interested in the carnage of deep shallowness? Surely, he was a visionary, at his age--and the future would show it. More embodiments of twenty-four sixties of collective-placed minutes were needed! To reconfigure his supposed and wanted destiny, through his cynical cynicism. He liked being abstruse yet didn’t. But extreme solipsism had its prices--plural lameness, zero minstrels, a lack of consorts. But foxtrot those! If he was to be the arcane microcosm, so be it! No sibylline was necessary for such an unglamorous fungal attempt! And thus, only extreme optimism, a truth the world had forgotten. And only those with a collection of organs that was effeminate were the carriers of such--what a lie! The opposite of boylessness-holders could own their own evoking lyricism of thinking organ nerve recollection relapses of the dragged pain and pleasure! They seldom showed it though--he wished they did more. It was no surprise that once again he did not receive what he had wanted. Fickle was time and for the earnest--preliminary gurus--their finicky aspirations inexcusable! Not to be tampered with! 

Fragrance--painful yet wanted. No one had one good. A person creature and the relapses of nerves in his or her thinking organ. The rock-ball suspended in gravity-less emptiness. Existence itself. Commonness, yes, they shared it. And what commonness? Fragile, they all were. That was how it seemed, how it was, how it would be. And it would never change, it was unconditional, when he knew it shouldn’t be--yet it was. Then, perhaps he was wrong and it should be. 

The medicinal pumice of day--the approaching deviance of night. They were unmeasured in their retributive catharsis--how relief was so heavily found in light or darkness, for many--the ascendancy into heavenward caressing by the lip-contact of love by an angelic demon, demonic angel. So good and real--so bad and selfish. Unwarranted in their ways of similarity and likeness. 

When the hopelessness would be nigh--he would not cry--he would refuse to say goodbye--his emotions at a high--he would never lie. And when he would gaze at the sky--with his vision organs attempting to pry--he would still be spry. He would rest his case as smitten, counting his impactful sins. Biological structures were always designed and built for a purpose, whether conscious or not. 

Conscientious--a rarity, he realized, in a rock-ball of his postmodernism. In precedence--frivolous monotony, obscurity, tediousness and repetitiveness--in their leeriness to them attracted to veering off the correct in moral path--so unnerving, needing a potent parable to fix them! As well, discernment even rarer--he wished it wasn’t but it was and he knew it was but didn’t believe it yet he knew he should yet didn’t. Ah! His residual confidantes of false elation! 

Pronouncements--the ones of his, and no one wished to hear them--a shame, to him, of course, but he believed it was a shame to them--didn’t all think that? The disputants of the shamelessness-carrion-eaters chiding and decreeing their faithfulness to unfaithfulness. 

Decrements--of heroic activity--it was oblivious to many yet so present! The euthanasia wish of his would exist if perfect storms existed--and they did, and when they did, the sea monster came! He hated so. But the countervail to the compliance of the leviathan was to stay unnerve-racking. Start toward mysticism to be fair in his liveliness. Not toward the fuel for hatred-filled misdeeds--boiling vexation, ill-fated exasperation. An undeniable, true, unfailing heat source. Dependable--steadfast. Unwavering in its hurling rage! 

Deviants in their cages--if they were free society would seemingly collapse, no--that was indeed wrong, and he knew. To be a voice for the voiceless, a leader of the leaderless, and a fearless for the fearful, freedom was his cry. They would call him freedom--his name, in the streets: “Freedom! Freedom!” And they would, dare he thunk it, be what was known as happy. 

Impermanence was poignant, truthfully. He kept trying to find himself, what he needed was to find others, such as Paris. Even so, the reason he liked Paris was because she found him--lonely and in the dark, chewing on rugs and rats in a dirty corner. And she healed him--lie! She merely helped--he would never be healed, and he knew so. 

Acroamatic were his ways--and if no disciples to listen to them, then how would he maintain his ness in the rock-ball? Such a mystery to behold, to undo, to figure! Although, make haste, for the valour of Paris--and her bravery to understand a language she did not know--his. 

“Tell me what you see when you face the wondrous sky.”

She would squint and study closely--scrutiny unbearable, too harsh--she was not staring through a microscope, was she? She could have been--he did not know her eyesight well--if he had, he would have understood, but he never would, unless her vision organs were surgically placed into his very own. 

“I see blueness, and whiteness of pure dihydrogen monoxide.” 

Ah, trying so hard to be inscrutable as well--nevertheless, he loved it. Sometimes slogging was part of the process to receiving a mighty, glorious, sublime anthem. But how would he know? As far as he knew, he was a loner in that dubious category. And why--he was in concealment. He always proclaimed momentarily but that was simply a revulsion to exoticness and outgoingness. 

To cause his foes asunder with a spear of mental unbelievability of their obvious trash would take a totality of unforgivingness--enough that he would never contain enough immorality and motivation to do so. 

So traced by such misdemeanour behaviours, ostensibly--preempting his estranged hermeticism. And some would say metadiscourse was unnecessary, unwanted, heavily criticized, and immensely extraneous, yet what they wanted and expected was fluctuating versatility, difference of mainstream, and creativeness! A contradictoriness so oblivious and believed to be hidden to their inner mental vision organs, yet so blaring! How could it not be even more blaring? Unnecessary--pith! Spit in their unattractive countenances! Thinking so high and mighty to decide everything--the fate of a work deemed terrible yet so far from it. Bah! He would never believe their opinions. 

The arrogance of his was familiar--Paris told him if he thought that way, he would never reach his dreams of wanting to please the world. Good for them--good for him, as well, so he would not mind, resist her advice, and keep for himself. If his aim was to please himself, himself was all that mattered. It wasn’t selfishness--it was logic. 

“I hate your cosmic inspiration,” she said. “It is time for us to grow up. Get reverse-immature. And it starts with you. Early morning wake you up--if that sounds unreasonable, then hide the disgrace--cryptic is your occult, as usual, appertaining to your invalidity as a person creature--a belief that nothing else could beat in falseness. Listen to yourself.” She should sought some tears--and she did. Wet eyes were just as disgruntling as cold hands and loud sounds, his new opinion. “Stop being this. You are capable of much more--of maintaining regularity.”

“There could never be a more false lie.”

“Of course there can! And that would be--that you cannot maintain the regularity! This is all a game, a pretentious one, and you are playing it for fun, as all games are meant for.”

“If this was a game I would quit playing, and you know that.”

With bodily water down her countenance-sides, she nodded and bit her lower eating-organ outline tissue. She understood--he knew. She had just hoped, that maybe she didn’t, and that she had been gullible all along, and that she was making a mistake, and that correction was possible for his self-evident, self-proclaimed elegance of mind. 

“I had hoped…”

“Shush, now. Tyrants of displeasure shall regard you no more. I will condemn them to organ failure and permanent loss of consciousness, if you deem them worthy enough so. I am your taker, your harbinger, your herald of the forerunner--and heed your words, I will make them bend their knee joints and put their object-picking-up tools over their heavily-protected thinking organs. Just like the bullies of that day.”

She nodded once more, the tears fading. Soaking into her own biggest-organ, the leather of her epidermis agreeing to accept what once came from itself--how lovers aways found their way back to each other after grief. How current electricity always understood to split its potential difference among the loads equally in the path regardless of its unknown future loads--predestined, it must be--what else? This rule it followed--surely physics explained--yet still such a complex mystery--it knew. It just did, through fate. The unknowingness of the latter obstacles. And if sentience force did the same--if it knew exactly how much to put in every scenario until organ failure--then such awesomeness was saintly--a feint to its own dastardliness. My, what epic! 

“You are epicene--the word suits you.”

“I wish to be. A fully-enlightened deity must be.”

“That is true.” She sighed--he knew what that meant, too. He was proud he did, as always. Candidly, as well. 

Rife with lots of imperiousness--his supposed mightiness. Denouncing his clandestineness was a sure organ failure--and to those of his beloved yaks in the north that were to be his pets. Inexorable--to be--he had to ameliorate his vocabulary of conventional wisdom, his library of Ancient Knowingness, and rigorous cognition, reduce sinuousness--and all of it plausibly. Not to be a considered a madman--his ultimate goal. But the thematic question of why would never be done with verification by his standards. Coherent was he so much that he wished to stay the same--and through validation and clarification, that is, was only until then this was accepted by his view. Formalities needn’t to be rushed. That was a synthesis of divinity. Leisurely, his plans should turn out to be painless (though he never achieved so). 

The monumental influx of captivating ideas were always at a surplus--he could never write them all down! And what a shame when he would forget some. He would imbed, encase, envelop, delve in mind profanity for it. How could he not? He was considered snobbish and joyless, but what of them, when they were themselves? Ha!--it would likely be the renaissance of begrudging. He would avail to no assent--he had no liability in evilness (without Eli, of course). He was a juggernaut of perfection! The part that was best? Appointed by no one! And anointed by nothing! 

Was it unfeasible to believe so?

Refutations and rebuttals would never hack him to pieces--hemming and hawing! His precarious buttocks. That’s what they said. 

“Hey pal, your precarious buttocks!”

Disgraceful--a pity. As always. To forsake this life of his, he would have to end everything manually. He did not want to--because of her. If she did not exist, or never arrived through the story of fate so carefully woven and told by her herself, he would have done so the deed. Easily and quickly--after all, he had attempted without hesitation at three years old. Dear, sweet Paris. 

The Realness of Everything consumed all of the boy--and yet it consummated everything as well. The dull polarity of his innerness--the sharp depths of his false shallowness, the one he pretended to have every single day for ones who called him pal. Exalted in nothingness, he liked to believe. It was always nothingness, yes. Never not, no. Brilliance was valued yet those who truly had it never seemed to get their entitled, promised fame. And who knew how many lives that weren’t born--their possibility there, but abruptly stopped by any reason--that had the potential for drastic greatness?

“Mighty thanks. Cheers, pal,” the actors of the prim and proper would say. Their nefarious canopies dispersed--emblematic of discord resonance--rightly so were their graceless ostracizing of ethicalness and its holders--the person creatures that beheld such ardent indulgence of uniformity--that being their greatness in the seduction of evil into not-evil. 

The cleansing and sweet refreshments of Paris--held mightily so by him--but her compound stinginess was explainable by the nefarious. She was sweet but she was an executrix of reversed gladness. An elder in sorrow. The boy agreed although, and he understood. He always did--only her, not others, no. He understood because he too wondered why such monstrosities--grimed infraction-makers--existed. It didn’t seem possible that a person could live so easily with the absolute least amount of empathy--blame and shame in their belief turned away from them and unto others who were innocent. 

Ah, them anomalies. Apparitions of cunning pestilence.

When he was eighteen,^⁠2 he would not be so deluded--others were, it seemed, he supposed--always on and on about one thing, one thing only. And perhaps, to be fair, it initially began past twelve, maybe before, but the truth was it was a sensitive topic, and no one cared much--when they actually did. This was ravishment--and things as such--and it was all so concluded that every human thought like so but not him--no, not him. When during the years of their prime adolescence every person wondered about a mate and that was natural--almost certain--some would say of course it was certain. And there was no censorship of reality--this was an audience that would bloom--shine, never fail to succeed and express their excitement to a form of erotism, it was true. There were literature and images and captured moments that they could explore--moving images, delightful pleasant surprises at what they saw--muster such a phrase able. The accessibility to any form of it was limitless, per se, and if you took away their privileges of it they would seldom say, intrinsically, it was because of the erotism. And the truth was something everyone knew yet was so rarely spoken of--that everyone enjoyed it, and would never admit to it--and those who did felt no shame. Those who admitted they did not feel shame--some didn’t--and that was who Devan was. Almost an adult, unafraid to admit that the type of art the modern world was obsessed with--nowadays, and, all throughout history, of course, one could never deny that--was less intriguing than an apple pie. An apple pie was nothing. It did nothing, it represented nothing, it was a result of random thinking. He supposed the apple pie was tasty, which was why everyone liked it, but not to him. No, not him. Disgusting--the taste. The nature of people wasn’t confusing, not confusing at all--and to think, erotism was shameful to many without explanation--there was no real reason for it to be--humans and procreation had never been enemies. Yet the boy found it so irrational--the desire and cravings of flesh and bone objects? If only he could turn that emotion off, he did not want it all. And he wished he wasn’t the only person in the world like that--he knew there were some who did, in fact, have that fortunate ability--what he didn’t like was that he was not one of them, one of the people who were pure and remained untouched by all the monstrosities. The reason was simple--when he was eighteen, he knew exactly what he wanted. Exactly--it was not so complicated--not at all, for you see, he wanted realness. Wholesomeness. The idea of it not existing in his age of existence was not true--he existed himself, Paris existed herself. And though it was seldom found, wholesomeness existed. It always did, it always had, it always would. And morality was a strange thing--there would be no decider of it--yet each person was a decider. Each person had their own. And each person’s was different. 

He would not say the wanting of a desirable person creature shape was disgusting--others did not think so, and although he did he would never say it. He did not know why. He supposed it had something to do with the topic being sensitive, or his overreaction of the issue--and it wasn’t even an issue--that was already a sign of his irrational thinking. He found it strange, though, that the feelings of those of the others--not him, no, never him--were based on compulsory thinking organ rules--an absurdity no one had imagined, but him. This was, of course, important, or else humanity would cease to exist--something people barely thought about--they were only in it for the pleasure. Of course, those simple-minded imbeciles--at least, that’s what the boy thought. They weren’t really--they had no choice for it, so they chose to enjoy--consequences were sometimes problems. The boy was glad his pastimes were so irregular--certainly not anything close to them. The problem with fantasies was their definition--reality was all people had and they didn’t like it. 

Rising--the only process he could never explain. Going up was both easy and difficult. A third education centre was unnecessary (they all were, in fact) and progress seemed fruitful--that was what they said--but it never was, it never would be beneficial to him. Used to hard work--a reason that he would not cease his reputation of the one who always caught the deer--the other tigers were seemingly always hungry. The stimulation of always wanting to prove--it bothered him. Why did he care what they thought? He supposed that was another emotion he could not control--he really wished he could, but no--he was no difference to the rest, in ways. 

One would never disagree that times were simpler as a child. West--sometimes the sun seemed to rise from that way, and the alarm clock would blare at the times he least wanted it to. All for what? The sacrifice was meaningless--and the repetition of routine was maniacal. He missed the days--didn’t us all--when he would play--they would never come back. And he was right when he thought change would consume him--it consumed us all, in fact--and he was now at a time where he valued academia more than a person--Paris. This was what he had feared--that he would go into the old ways, the classic ways, the traditional--it was so horrifying, he didn’t want to be this way--he wanted to go back, but if he did then he would want to move forward. He didn’t know what he wanted, he never did. 

He could not assemble himself into the collective society alone--he never had the capability to, and what made him so angry was that Paris was able to do it so well--she had forgotten, then. Forgotten the days when they knew everything--her thinking organ was reset. That’s what adulthood did to her, he supposed--unchangeable, and he wouldn’t if he had the choice, no, not for her. She always did what he liked and he would not risk such a loss of happiness--she contained too much, the release was so powerful every day--and everyone saw her and envied her for it. He had found himself envying her recently as well--he didn’t want to, but he did--but since he did, that meant he wanted to. That was an emotion he could control--he wasn’t sure about that, yet he was. 

Shutting doors was something he had always done--after all, he was talented at it--the old man never seemed to care much after he had done so. He had decided then, the next time Paris would enter his dorm and ask what was wrong (he would like to say she seldom did but that would be a huge falseness) he would hug his pillow--tears, maybe--he would not be ashamed at all if he had tears. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Go away. I don’t want you near me anymore.”

She would know, too. She would know what she had always known--the cure for isolation was never itself, no. The problem was he knew that as well, and he wished it was--and he wished he didn’t know, too. But phases came and went--he wasn’t so sure his mother was correct. “You will change in the future.” That was certain, although the change was never one she had expected. What she had wanted to change stayed the same--a pity, too. 

A long exhale. That was all she did. She was there--just there--the lights were off, but the brightness of the ones outside in the hall illuminated his room--just like his attic one at home--that was how he wanted it. Her arms were crossed--he was proud to know what that meant, but others would not see that as a point of pride, no. That would be an interpretation they all made every day without a thought of its significance. And clothes. A ponytail. He hated those details. And if she looked different--not jogging pants and a sweater (the modernness disgusted him; that typicality was always something he had judged), possibly a shirt and no hairband, he would hate that too. She might as well be invisible then--then he would hate that too. And you couldn’t ask him why--he’d say he didn’t know. But yet there she was, with one look, one look only. If she was all the looks at once that would be better, so no one could argue with her look--but that was merely impossible. And he still wouldn’t like that. He’d say, choose one look, and then get angry at that one look, too. 

But the looks were unimportant, and he knew that, for the current moment. He did not want to look at her any longer--no, it wasn’t shame--even though it was. And he didn’t want to admit. Again, he believed anything he wanted. That was how he survived--yet that was also how he didn’t. And he did not look at her for a while, yet he felt her there--another unexplainable occurrence many people were familiar with--still standing there and watching him, staring at the mess he was. 

“I am not a mess!” he yelled to himself. Why did he do that? Why did he think that? He was not. He was the most orderly person on the planet--Paris understood that, that’s why she liked him, stuck by him, correct? Or else she would not care about his instances, the events of his life. And then she would say, I didn’t say you were a mess. Go on. Say it. He was waiting for it. But he knew she knew he would think of her saying that. That’s why she didn’t. 

She sighed once more. “Remember that ballpoint pen I gave you? I’m sorry, but I don’t have one now. Listen, I didn’t have to go through a rude mother either. The closest was your roommate--who fiercely defended your door. And do you know why? Because he cares about you. He knew you wanted to be left alone. But for me--if I cared for you I’d be speaking to you, right now. That’s what I’m doing. Loneliness--it is something we fear, and tell everyone it doesn’t exist in our lives. I’d love to say it was true. Come on. I know what’s troubling you. I really do. You just never speak of it--you don’t want to. Yet you do. You yearn to so much that it consumes you, and you don’t because there hasn’t been a right person to tell it all to except me. And people will say you are crying for no reason, being a melodramatic, but they don’t know, do they? That there are a million things to cry about every second that you know and they don’t--what’s different about them is that they understand there are a million things to be happy about every second too, and you don’t think so. Negativity beats positivity, but you told me before you believe in anything you want.”

He did not want to let her be his beacon but he had no choice--she knew him too well--understanding was what she did that he admired--no one else could like her. But was the cost lower than the product? Paris had always been the one to get the happiness from the store, but she never brought him to help her with it. That saddened him--lost, he was, truly--but generalizations would never have been made--losing everything was not what he wanted, what no one did. He shifted on the bed--that was prone to interpretation--he was wordless during it, and hope was all he could muster the signal while staying wordless--it was a safety he had always delved in--sometimes periods of time so long that he had forgotten his own voice. No one else but him knew what that felt like. 

She understood--good, bad, he did not know. Any person would say good. She joined him there--arm around him--and something people in his state never did was bring their face out of the pillow. He would do so, then. He would prove himself to be different--something he always wanted, every day, and everyone else, too. Then he couldn’t, then. If everyone wanted to be different, wanting to be different would not be different. His head would stay in the pillow, then.

“Oh, for goodness sake, look at me. Get your face out of that thing.”

Stubbornness--she used to call it persistence but it was another effect of her adulthood--she had switched it to stubbornness. No. That’s not what he wanted--he had hoped she never would switch that. What troubled him was that she must’ve thought it was shame and shyness to why his face was still in the pillow--she would have been wrong. It was his indecision to be different, but how could he explain all that in words to her? She would get confused, or she would not care. There had been a time she would care, but now these times have ceased. He liked to think she was drifting away--that would be an easy explanation--but that wasn’t true. In fact, she had never been more close. 

He brought his face out of the pillow, then. That’s what he would do, that’s what he did do. There was no harm--there was no shame. He did not want to but he did. He would not feel pride in it, though--he did not want to. He did not want to because it was such a petty thing to feel pride in--only little children would be happy that they had taken their face out of the pillow to see the faces of their angry mothers. The shame was possibly from their tears--they did not want them seen. No one wanted them seen. And so, he would be the first to have them seen. 

She stared at him for a moment--almost a little gasp as well, as if her blood pump dropped--he did not know what it was--he had never been good at interpreting things, so much that every time he did correctly, he was proud of himself. And if it was what he thought it was then he was probably wrong. He did not like to be wrong, so he did not ask. But her blood pump had definitely dropped--he could sense it. Things like those were just so visible to him, sometimes more visible than what his eyes could see. And she looked away shyly. Ah, what wonderfulness--little did he know of everything. Impossibility was something that had always concerned him--he liked to believe this was not an impossibility. Just for once. And if it wasn’t--true happiness? No, it did not exist. But as he aged he began to ponder of its existence more and more. 

And he was still crying. 

“Come here,” she said. He would never not accept the offer of an embrace--from Paris, his mother, a relative, a neighbour--he’d even take one from Eli. He would never not accept if he was in this state of emotion--and he still never completely understood emotion. He never would, and he knew that, although someday he hoped he would. And the coldness? It was gone. She was wearing a sweater, but that wasn’t it--he knew because the loud sounds were gone as well. Quietness was the new deafening roar, and it pounded his ears so much that he had to wince.

“The anthem?” she asked. She knew. She always did. 

He did not want to nod. He did not want to say a confirmation word. He wanted to stay silent because to do so was pointless--she already knew. But a regular person would, and since Paris wanted so much for him to be regular (he never would be anyway, even if he tried, and he did not want to be), he nodded his head. 

This time, the song was of silence. That was the loudest one of all, because it spoke the most. It spoke of how in that moment, his mind was clear. He knew it wouldn’t last, so he would speak his words before it would end. 

“Listen,” he began. “I told you that if I became a problem, everyone should run away from me. That’s what I want--I would not care at all. I don’t want people near me--people are strange, they always have been, always will be. I will never be taught, and although I will never admit it, I will now: I will never be taught because of egotism, because I do not want to be taught. I believe what I want to--I can never be wrong that way. And this may sound like the concept everyone else knows, and has in their minds--but they don’t know that. I do. When I hear loudness I wince. When I hear silence I wince. The way that I am is I do not know of anything, which is why I contradict myself, always. But just this once, when I say everyone shall leave me, I am certain--there is no contradiction in my head this time. And you say I will be sad but I have always felt sadness. I will not care--I cannot care. Loneliness is me--how can I escape myself? Everyone lives forever--those imbeciles--I cannot handle that. I cannot have the estranged thoughts in my head--I cannot accept that. But what I know is that no one will leave me. Not the people I walk by in the hallways, or my roommate, my mother, father, Eli, you. That’s what I hate--yet that is what I admire.”

He had never explained things well. He would never be able to--as he knew, the clock at home would always tick, and the winds would always blow. And if one was happening, the other would be known to be happening as well--which was all the time, because both did not stop. And when he heard them, he knew the anthem was at ease--the calmness soothing and frightening at the same time. When he did not hear them, he knew the anthem was loud--the loud noise he had hated all his life. 

When he was a child he had never enjoyed anything. Now? He wouldn’t say it had changed, even if that was false. He never said anything true that he knew to be true. The current moment was an enjoyment (he hoped, he still did not understand what true happiness felt like). What he did know was that something had changed. The anthem, possibly. It had new lyrics, and symphony was beginning to expose itself, the rhythm clearer now. Lonely shadow on the bed, ease yourself and rest your head, light, gently, careful now, your mind will soon cease to be loud. He hoped that was good--he did not know. 

There were many things that bothered him, but one that most did was that there were some people that would never understand any of his thoughts. In fact, most would never have the capacity too--too imbecilic, shallow, their thinking organs not designed for such things. But that was people--strange, but how they worked nonetheless. That person--the one he saw by the street, by the store, but the path--could have been a person who had thought all of this--but they were just not able to. The explanation was hard, as usual. But their practical minds--he believed it was possible to be his, if only they had the determination. They never did, though. 

And a book could never be perfect--replace everything with new words, it could be better. It was impossible to please everyone. What he did not like was that when he carefully fleshed everything, when he carefully chose his nouns, verbs, and adjectives--out there, they could be replaced by new nouns, verbs, and adjectives, and simultaneously be considered better. That was a loss for him--he hated it, yet knew it was true. This time, there was no denial. He wished there was. He always had one, why not for this?

Victims would always be fragile, it seemed. The community would always be susceptible to the changes of tyranny--outdone by those who were chosen to lead that path--and figuratively, without the hesitation of the final outcome on the behalf of all--the maximizing effort of wait itself was grand enough to dull the minds of many. But the recreation efforts of what was already done, over in century, past, and until the beginning of the now--a waste of breath and time for the ones considered with the great responsibility--the shadow of the sun would be safest, never the rays of magnitude that harmed us day and night. It was this, in fact--for everyone, he had hoped--that was the reason actions were done that he did not want to. The imperfection of such a detail was a compelling instrument, an altering voice--so much that the forthcoming was impelled--the choice of not taking his face out of the pillow. And to think no one would go his path--no one would understand what it took to understand, they would never understand then--a shame, to him, to all. 

Those who fought with a sliver of their mended souls were considered heroes, yet they were the ones who were not--and if so he would be called a hero but there was not a single person who saw him as that--no, merely a cloud, a plane, a futileness--and if there was no peculiar way to describe him and his emotional construct then there would be no way. Inconceivable, his conception--particularly light was a factor, a role--he knew that, people knew that, but they would never think that themselves. But random wasn’t the explained--maybe so, but he would never call it random. A person could never rename all the books he or she has read--a person could tell you though, if you show that person a book, if he or she has read it before. 

The anomaly--strange, he would say himself but it wasn’t himself--others would disagree. And accepting an embrace was a sign of--nothing, in his opinionated matter--yet it was so deciding, it decided something, he did not know. He never did. But all he knew was that doing so afflicted his emotions--better or worse, he would never be able to tell--but Paris around him was a difference, of course. Physically--he knew that, everyone knew that, but what people would seldom admit was that its role in emotionalism was massive more impactful--he knew that he did not want the ceasing to begin. Camped--the lamp was on, and if it was off, he would be in the dark. The light, the one that helped his conception, would not be the same. Yet it was. And that light was not cold, no. The light was never cold. And it produced no sound--he did not want it to go, then. 

Carefully was something he knew--he liked to believe he wasn’t stupid because of that. That he was working toward a suitable transformation everyone would agree--and he could interpret it this time! What a wonder! But he would not be likely to in the future--he knew this hadn’t been the first time and the last time, for that matter--unless Paris died in an accident, which he wished but at the same time didn’t wish--but tragic events had never made it into his life and therefore he had nothing to grieve--having nothing to grieve was unhealthy. Arrogance, selfishness, unwilling to participate in the helpings of those wanting--all of that was to come. And praise be to him! He would cause no accident, only to himself--and if one was to happen he would grieve, of course. He would make sure to. 

There it was, then--carefully. Drifting was another concept he had hoped to achieve first--he was beaten. Sleep always got Paris first, and he had always wondered why when it occurred the blood pump still beat. He could feel it--consciousness was separate than life, it seemed--perhaps it always was. There it was! Slowly, pumping its blood--yet her thinking organ was impractical in the moment--dormant, laying. Death was not it--he knew that. He was glad he knew that, and he had said he wished for it to be true--now, he wasn’t so sure. He hated that! Suspected it had something to do with emotions again--of course it did, what else could it be? And he would almost hit her--Wake up, he’d say--she perhaps would but perhaps not (this unfortunate probability was destructive to his thoughts) and she would inquire. Of course she would inquire--a person would. But if she didn’t he would have liked that--he did not like expressing what he knew--for if she had asked he would have to explain that he had thought she was dead, which he knew wasn’t true, but yet he didn’t--perhaps it was. Her happiness--the bar would decrease, he would know--and it never held a place anywhere, yet it would--and she would acknowledge such a strange thought--no one else would have thought that, especially at the feeling of her beating blood pump!

So he did not hit her, no--he had wished he had, yet he felt relief he hadn’t. Relaxing it would be, then. That’s how it would stay--and if he did not care about the dangers of the disturbances (there would likely be some) he would not care, then--it was okay. After all, Paris had said it was okay--falling asleep was the card--for any other, it would not flash in his eyes the way a sentence would, but it was all the same significance to him, he knew. Sometimes silence was a conversation he could interpret more easily than an actual one--it seemed, for many, that they would say so too--but no, they never understood. They would like to, but he knew no one knew what he meant. No one ever did. Except for Paris. But that was a castrating occurrence, possibility--if he had the revelation of what he had thought before. Never, no! He would hate it if for once he was right--he always did, although he knew he was always right. The cycle was the explanation, possibly--no, probably--yet it wasn’t. And he knew that. He liked to believe that. 

It would always be grasp-worthy but unable to grasp--seemingly a stupendous frenzy was a reasoning--imagining that was difficult yet simple. And if the stars were to fall down one day--perhaps they would, he’d like to believe--the cosmos would stay as significant as it had always been. Specks did not matter. And so if he was erased--the universe would continue all the same. A star he was, then--no fire or light, of course--but the principles of their existence bonded similarly--perhaps because it was so similar, and he knew, he had deciphered it. Without all the clocks in the cosmos time would still tick, much like the one at home, the one his mother used to regulate and tell her what to do during the day (letting a simplistic device act as a boss and treat you like a peasant was an atrocious and hysterical idea to him, but everyone seemed to do it in his world--how he hated his world!) and without all the planets the winds would still blow--energy was always displaced and he knew that--yet he didn’t. Surfaces were scratched merely always--that did not stop him from imagining the rest, as he always would. The reign of the cosmos was truly terrifying to the extent of its oppression on human life--yet no one seemed to wonder that. 

Inspiration would have his name--if he had been sitting on a chair, listening to the news, he would have hated it--yet, loved it. That was a moment in time that was unique--no one knew for sure, supposedly--and the appallingness of the one scenario was worthless. That was not the one, true moment in time--he’d like to believe so, yet it wasn’t. And the words he would hear would not be the correct ones, either. If there was merely a sea of nothingness he would like that--yet he wouldn’t. Oh, how he wished he would know! A supernaturalistic judgement of a deity would know. And if he had told this--and one would have listened--the interpretation would never be as correct. No, it would never. Literature and stories had its standards--reliving them was impossible and so, the truest emotion could never be felt during their tellings. 

When he was twenty, the extent of his possibilities seemed endless--yet his opportunities, they seemed to be the same--why did they feel as if they were? A speculation of sorts was what brought him that conclusion, of course, never a true answer was enough--and one would never come from him. A space was left--down the river the boat would go and it would either fall off a waterfall, or sail through the world--no one would ever know unless they boarded. The clicking, the shower, the inherent salutations--it was expected, suspected, depicted slightly--the grotesqueness was quivering, yet so stable--and the anthem would not lay low now. A canvas was empty--a conclusion was drawn. Hammering his viscosity, glimmering was a spark he knew of well--and it would continue to epically deem his worth, mold, shape--westerly, he would go in that direction--and at the same time, easterly. The sun would rise in both, as well.

He began to wonder when things would start--a pinpoint in the entity of the canvas was necessary, it seemed--this endlessness was infinite, it would never end, until he would end it. After and after, over and over, again and again. That’s what it felt like--needles, alcohol, wounded--an eraser would be needed (but he could not brush his teeth with it still), and an application--it was necessary? Why was that so? Could he not explain everything once and be done with it? If Paris complimented and recommended him, why would the instructors not believe so? The possibility of ruthlessness, of deception and a tactic of belief, systematic proportions would lead it--the toxicity was never detected, yet there--yet, it could not be there! That unpredictability was determined by the judgement of themselves. It seemed so knowledge had standards and limits to those who claiming--possessed them. And if he wasn’t at the top through experience and age, slaying would be it then--wisdom hadn’t neither of them, it never did--but they would never comprehend that, and so they kept their systematic ways. How pathetic. How imbecilic. 

A teacher did not need a degree to prove their worth--a teacher did not have to be smarter, wiser, aged more--a teacher just had to teach. That was their sole purpose, their sole reason of containing their job--and acting like it wasn’t, and all the latter forms of explanation did, then they were liars--it seemed everyone was, anyway--he would never be able to tell, that was how it was. 

The horizon was sweet--that was why it was loved--and all other things that were sweet could never be called the horizon--he knew that. Eccentric, imaginative, creative, original--plain, false, negative inducting words. And those under the name of humanitarianism were also sweet--yet they were not always loved. Plus, deeming, deft--the people that did not--they never knew such sweetness, it seemed--they never would. He hated that. The inefficient members, their archaic traditions--the unreasonable provisions of evilness, the rude and the unjust--the people who did not contain caring within them, their daringness to humiliate, whether with purpose or not--they would never think like the goods. No, their minds were too mannerless, and selfishness was the boreal arpeggio to the stardom of self ravishment--their needs were undoubtedly, massively more important than their surrounding individuals--sometimes, bands. He hated their anger toward nothingness--and if they were too nice he would hate that too. He did not know why. But based on the ideal, perfected, formulaic, modern, sophisticated system of living--these people continued to exist within the goods. And if there was an established system of living, it would never work. Because of those people--the cycle was unbeatable. 

The tyrants and the peasants--the tales of the past seemed to tell only one story--the system did not exist, no--down to the starving peasants to the wealthy individuals. And one day they decided to share everything. How great of an idea! It, sadly, did not work. Then they decided to trade everything, with a currency--that mostly worked, but it was not perfect. Scandals and bribery existed. There would be no perfect way, and if there was, they would never know of it--of course there wasn’t, he knew that--but he would always hope. 

And to those who said sentimentality was a weakness? Those who found comfort in strength, showing it, and enforcing the centrality of it? They could never be more wrong, no--he hated those that spoke of harshness toward what mattered the most. Perishing was what they deserved--the loophole would never be mended--the gateway to destruction opened--the livingness of the monstrosities would cease, never by itself--scandalous, it was. 

Chilling prestigious to those unaware--their alleviation was channeling--respect was given, he decided for himself--and population was marvelling--point-blank, it was right there that they would find their safe haven--faded, it would be. No, those who excelled at the awarding of gratitude--every day, those who were ounces away from terror did not have a reservation for the haven--ultimately, they would utilize their potential in a manner toward humanitarianism that would establish a standard for all those who could, would, should follow--farewell to the faraway distances of the sea monster. It would not be its day today, no--whenever an act of surprise anathema against the wicked souls. The souls were undefined as always--never in the clear--fog would have its day as well.

And he would be the scribe--he would be the exchequer--within its very own context, indiscriminately, he hated impracticality, impartiality. The perplexity of those which would see his works--outrageous, they’d say--worth a ton of old nothing, they’d say--a jumbled mess of nothingness, in between the pages, nothingness also. To them, perhaps, to himself, he’d never say so, of course, but it dived often as not--the glass windowpane always open to mindless others’ minds--therefore they could always charge but never could they withstand. A salem would be called.

There would be times that the light of day shone brightly; there would be days when the dark of night shone darkly. And instances were not his favourite--if there would be another person in the world that would try to understand him, it would be Eliwin’s sister, whom loud speaking and cold fingers he tolerated. It seemed female sentimentality--down yonder the dark ages of resentment and prejudice--behaviours and springtime alikeness were wasteful in the sense of their distinguishable yet seldom-said existence. At least, nowadays--fires burned, and if people said they did not, then they would not. 

It was her, though, that greatness was found--or so, he thought, perhaps he only liked believing. When he had met her--drifting away was a complexity, the shoulders would always be tense, always, from profound experience and beforehand behavioural explanations of his soul--he did not back away this time. No, he did not--in fact, he shivered the entire conversation but she did not notice--it seemed they never did but that was a recalculation that could be presumed false if falsely judged. The freezing accusation of resilience--the predetermination of freemasonry between the moment of occurrence. 

“Hello, I am Eliwin’s sister,” she said. 

Not even a name--no, it would take more than that. But all he knew was nothing--the immaculate derision was imminent toward his favour of knowing her--he had a role to play--it would not all come immediately--and what did he know so far was what he would use into the next step. 

“I am Eli’s friend,” he said. There. Completion was relief--it would be her turn next. 

“It’s okay if you can’t find anything to say. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Just like that, she knew--and he hated that--yet he didn’t, and he knew that. My life is wanted to be spent with you, he wanted to say--so forth that she would know already, that it would be useless--and complex patterns in his feeble attempts would stay confusing and puzzling. Ah, how else would he say it, though? Respect and formality was something he--everyone had known their whole lives, and to think in one blow, one sentence, it could be rid of for the honest truth! Only if the person was him, he knew. 

“Eliwin told me you’re very strange,” she spoke words. “Paris says that’s not true. Is it?”

There it was again! The offence would be indescribable--had it not been he did not care--he would acknowledge that as well.

“Oh, I would say that was rude, but sometimes I get too curious--I fancy curiosity, you?”

Ah well. She seemed flawless. That was exactly what he would have wanted her to say (which is why he hated it) and the honest truth was said. 

“I don’t want to be the first person you encounter--close enough in relativity, Eliwin’s brother--that you have not come to good terms with. I propose that we walk--anywhere, I suppose--and I can do all the talking. You shan’t be worried about pleasing me--you have pleased Eliwin enough, I shall take that as a reputation warning--talking with a friend should be comforting and relaxing. If I am to be your friend when the future will expel the outcome, I don’t want the first greeting to have an everlasting grim impression.”

He did not know how to say what he felt--and he did not know how to return an opinion to agree--of course, he knew, but not to her--and his face was burning! She was searing it! How could a cold-fingered individual have such hot touch--it seemed impossible! The unexplained would stay unexplained, he supposed. 

The man understood complexity but could never embrace it, no. And severing the ties between it and reality was astronomically magnifying to the lenses of the human optics. 

“My name is Cecil,” she began. “Although my friends call me Cecily, my parents call me Cecily, my grandparents call me Cecily, my neighbours call me Cecily, my teachers call me Cecily--I don’t understand why I am Cecil, then. That is just how it works, I suppose. Eliwin has told me you are Devan Cosmos, correct? I recall hoping to be correct, but mistakenly, sometimes I have not been. And it always induces a great deal of embarrassment and rash excitement--it is always an opportunity for people to harm me--verbally, I suppose. As if they act like they have not gotten a detail about someone wrong before.”

He loved her for that--how truthful! 

Passing a gardener: “Bah! Time wasting has never been exceptional in my eyes, ever so for a gardener--the fact the weeds will grow back, the grass will grow back, and the flowers will wilt and die proves that they need perseverance and patience to please themselves with what they would eventually see if they worked hard enough--if only they would ask themselves for what. And if for that what, if the worth is enough.”

About name knowing: “New people are so impervious and irrational--afraid of the slightest of things. Potentially, like knowing a name before meeting them. They always question who told you--and you’d be ashamed to say you eavesdropped someone calling them that, but you shouldn’t be. Why should you be? Interpersonal connections and emotions have never been so quixotic, absurd, speculative, unattainable, unreasonable, arbitrary, illogical, preposterous!”

And when he would ask why she spent a total of ten seconds to explain the worth of interpersonal connections and emotion to herself: “Oh, nothing so. You’d need not worry--I like words. I like many words. And those words--I chose them because I felt like it. Sometimes you don’t need a reason--mood is your motivator--and sometimes you just don’t know. Not that you can’t answer, but that you don’t know--you just don’t--and some would say it’s called gut feeling but I say it’s just what it is, what it’s meant to be.”

After an immense moment of silence from the man: “Okay, it is--people are overly pressured into the concept of turn-taking--and if one does not have something to say, it immediately means they do not want to speak any longer. But there is no one to hold your hand during the public adventures--and silence. Some underestimate the value of silence--if you were in it with your sibling you’d feel comfortable, but trying to speak to a stranger, and suddenly it becomes your worst enemy--bland and uninteresting are the attackers of your reputing reputation, fear of the stranger deeming you a stranger--fear of he or she thinking you are the bland and uninteresting--and then failing to conclude the revelation that it is ultimately in the reverse spectrum as well. People fail to realize that people are them--people are people also--and when they are faced with strangers who seem all perfect in their eyes they don’t understand that those strangers see them perfect in their eyes and think to themselves if something is wrong with them--if their flaws are not hidden enough. Critiquing is, I suppose, a blame to this--a founder of sorts--one would never say admitting their own imperfections is easier than critiquing.”

That was it! He had had enough! He had seen enough of her beauty--the anthem was pounding now. Too much warmth--that’s what it was, that’s what he believed--and he had to get away. He wanted to scream--and he did not know if he did so, the action was more probable than not--and he would run from her, without so much a trace of why--and he did not need to tell why, for she knew everything already--she knew too much!

“Wait! Where are you going? What is wrong? Was it something I said? Of course it was--speaking is all I have been doing. And because I perceive my words as nothing meaning any harm, I’d say it’s because you wish they were your words, am I correct?”

And he would not stop in his tracks and say no, but his emotions would control his overpowering eagerness once again, so he did the exact opposite. “If you know so much woman, I’d rather not say.”

“Why would you repel someone that bears close resemblance to you?”

“I would not.”

“Then now?”

“I do not know.”

“You have enough, I see. Enough people in your life. When you do not want to admit you get too angry--when admitting is what you’ve done you say you do not know. I understand, truly, I do--you do not want another one too much like you--you have received the pain enough, and you wish to be the only one to. Perhaps you still are--it’s true, I did not have my own anthem until I contained ten years of my life--most never find theirs. Paris told me you heard it since the day you were born, and that it’s been bothering you ever since--and that you are proud of it nonetheless. To think that someone else--someone you are not even remotely close to--has it, you refuse to believe it. And believing is what you do, isn’t it? Maybe you wish people you have invested time and effort into would find their anthem, not a stranger like me. But who says I have to be a stranger? Friendship--a decision that needs wisdom, excellence, and favouritism--but it needs no beginning. And if I were to be so kind as to accept you as one from the first instance of being with you, I’d say our relationship would start in a vivacious manner--and I’d like that.”

And he held out his hand--after her, of course--she was too fast for him. She would always know. And they shook it--and if it weren’t for their anthems a hand-shaking would have never occurred--it would never have been necessary, either. 

Opinionated eyesight was never a problem for him--foreground, almighty--resuscitation and amendment would reinstate his quantificational festering of heightened vitamin prevalence--and the grand institutional jolly old fable of his centralized version of music would be in case--wrecked by the inanimate signings of trebleness. 

Then--they both knew too--they hugged afterwards. This time, she did not feel so cold. 

At the end of the day he would be inquired by Paris--so, how did you like her?--and he would never answer. This time, he would, though. And this time, the spamulejce would ease him. He did not, though. Yet, he did. He surprised himself that day--disambiguation was settling and fixing, a prescience not to be dazzled around and disturbed--it remained undisturbed defamation ally--undermined and wizzlceracked. 

“I liked her,” he would say. And he did. 

“I thought you would,” she would say. And she did, too.

“She isn’t you.”

“I knew you would say that--and sometimes, our efforts combine into a useless outcome. But that generalization isn’t qualified--it’s a feast that spans your thinking organs--one. Years of your companionship has affected something, at the least.”

“Why did she appear so late? She could have came earlier. I would have liked her more than you.”

“True also--but everyone lives their life thinking it’s the best one; that nothing can exceptionally come close to the surmounted sum of their experiences--yet wrongness is all they know after.”

It appeared, as likely as he would and did predict, that this circumstance of navigational error was reprising--beforehand was a time when he knew this feeling--and heaps of sea monster flesh was pounding at his door to be collected, eaten--and he would like to say he wasn’t hungry but he was--aye, the cold wounds of entrapment--he would never! One anthem was enough--two would be troubling--and Paris had always valued his emotion--and it was temptation that was empowering his decision--not contemptible misinterpretation of his dear, sweet Paris--and he would never! Never! From the bottom of his blood pump, to the longing anthem (from the sea monster, he knew that by now) he would run away as fast as he could--watching, waiting, down yonder the depths of the portal in which what was unknown came from--terrorizing him no longer--deeper, gone! Smitten, monster! Arise from the brotherhood world hence you came from! He was Paris’s--he would stay that--and he knew she would uncover all this fast, so he hid that--treasured it, buried it--all until his blood pump was heatless. The sea monster? Gone was it--he would talk of it no longer.

Paris smiled, also--she knew. 

And Cecil sparked enjoyment--but often as not, he felt it anyway. Prelude, the enhancement of designation and commitment was final and paradisiacal--this was the place Paris wanted him to see and find--not the grass blades, the metal benches, and the setting of the day-maker, no. Not those. And he did not see it before, but now he did. And he would never not see it again.

When he was twenty-five, the ceremony was minuscule--Paris knew better than to make it grand--and when she asked him, “Where shall we go?” he wanted to remember the grass blades and metal benches, so they went there. That was all--and he would tell his mother and father and Paris’s mother and father that went somewhere far, exquisite, foreign, too adventurous but the truth as it was they went nowhere describing that at all. And they were content--why would they not be? Simpleness in all its glory--ravishment and gluttony not. But sweet Paris would not stray so far this time--never would she again.

Ominously, meticulously, and the majestic gesticulations of the wonders of partnerships--it did not intrigue him before, he knew that. Now, that he was older, it did. Of course it did. One could never stop oppressive age. No, age was unstoppable, a furious contender, a tyrant in life’s name and bewilderment! Assumptions--they had to be made--and unnoticed was it that they were not. Ever so--it was badly dematerialized, point of extinction--dastardly fed upon biters. As a child, positive outlooks were expected--why not negative ones as well? It would suit adulthood well, in fact. And that would always be a fact.

Her ring was nothing, too--and others would never understand but she would, he knew--he did not need a symbolic item to represent something only she and him needed to know. Useless--pathetic, pitiful. One would lie if they said it wasn’t--and the polytonic expression was a liability--secrets shared--dicing his movability of freedom, sacrilegiously attempting to explode it with a tool of harm.

If she was unhappy? Mattered to him it did not--false, he knew, but he wished it wasn’t--and he wanted it to be true because he was not the one that proposed the decision of unity--if he was left alone in the vicious, unfair world, he would never have been the one--and he liked it that way. He didn’t as well--he did not know. 

“Congratulations! My sincere gratitude! My express of love and pride! Compliments! Felicitations! Kind regards! Blessings! Good fortune! Best wishes! Respects! Best regards!” They did not know, did they? They were so clueless--clueless about what? They would ask, if he had accidentally said it aloud. And he would say he didn’t know--they would be confused but they would not care--only appreciating what mattered in that moment. Perhaps it was mistakenly done so, as many thought--and he would say yes but not in front of her--never in front of her--and mistakenly but not the traditional kind--he would not want an annulment but still--one had to think if it was fate or false perceptions and generalizations--pleasures would overcome the consequential guilt and tiresomeness of falsity? Highly doubted--and if that was true, he would never want it to be--he would like it. And he knew that, which he did not like. But one chance was once chance, and if he were to live the good, perfect life, there would be no seconds--and Paris had high expectations from it, and him, and he had always trusted her judgement--if this was a finality, so be it--dived in, there would be nothing else--and its genesis would never have happened anyway, a try was worth lots and many.

Oh, how he longed to feel happy! Sometimes he thought he was, but how could he confirm it? A beam was a symbol, and its concept was humanized--it was not definite. And his blood pump anthem did not say a thing--no, it never would, for topics such as these--and often as not he wished it would stay that way--which it would, and he knew. Epidemically, poetic--salaciously, seductively, the novelty prize of ascendent ascendance and heroism, such formality and entrapment, closeness was it, that he would see it all before--and now was different, now was the same--now, he would taste what tasting was, feel what feeling was--or so, he thought. And the copulative and cumulative excitement of heat--it would always bother him--a mistake, perhaps? Too late to say now, they were connected by consonance and compelling covenants--and a shirt may not fit in its emergence, inception--but it would eventually do so with time, as the body would increase in mass. And so shameful at intimacy was he that he did not think this occurrence was ever possible--and Paris said so but this time he was unsure of trusting her--then again, she had never let him down. But at times he would wake up in the centre of the night and drown in sweat and deep contemplation--always in scrutiny at his life--and he would feel as if the anthem was coming back (no, he would not speak about the sea monster once more, although it was probable to be that, too) and he did not want it to come back--for it was too loud. And as if that was enough, Paris would wake up beside him and--aye! Too cold for him, he would slither away--a sliver of hope was all it would take, and a hint of misinterpretation, that he was being attacked--and he would understand once again he was in a loving household--danger was imminent only in his eyes, and fear was a mind game. And she would ask, “What’s wrong, honey?” And he would go, “Don’t call me honey.” And she would remember, and also understand that he wasn’t honey, he was a person, and she would try her best to get him back to sleep--always a valiant effort, he realized, which he loved and valued but would never say that, no, he just couldn’t--and darkness would claim him once more, the ground beneath him shattering his trance of tranquility and symphony. The pleasing effects would guide him, she said--they never did, no. Some of them were sinful, and always grounded progression, instilling the wave of conscious wrongly induced excitement. 

But then again. She always had a way with words. She would say, “My hands are not cold.” And he would believe it. And then, clasping onto one of hers, he would find out she was right. And then back to the sleep place it would be.

The red light would be sadistic in command--and commandments said farewell to him because he wanted it that way. But when it shone green--it never did--he liked to run around the meadow aimlessly, wandering in a time known as forever. That’s what he decided he liked, and would do, once he would have the chance. And deducting when the time would come was unnecessary but believable, yet necessary and unbelievable. He did not know, and if he did not know, assumptions were drawn--and the subtle effects of them dived into his yearnings. 

Deiced--juxtapositional standings--pacing was hard and tantrum able, tantalizing was northward. At ease, he would say to himself, and yet himself would not listen to himself as himself was too chaotic--the prescience he would never get away from, the one in him--him. He had always found comfort in silence, and sometimes that was preferred--good for him. Lonesomeness was a tyrant that explained itself at gigantic times--and cheating systems--were weary of its existence. If he would embrace such dark feature and manifestation, he would then--liking it was a question never to be answered. But supposedly, nothing was special--everyone survived until the age of ageism and nothingness--unknowingness. If that were true--which in his mind was--then the worth of their feeble minds and existential crisis was dramatically, both upwards downwards deducted. The bus would come--he was ready. He’d need no money--he would say it all to the driver. And based on empathy the driver would have to come to a conclusion of choice--if he knew that the man would not die he’d do so without so much of a hesitation--uselessness would be at its definitive and undoubted, undisputed peak. 

And those nights when he and Paris were so out of place would be and hold so much value--they were times when not knowing was a silencing experience--that could only grow their bond stronger--and when they were so in order and in place, and the most chaotic thing was the traffic that they heeded to when work was an inevitable part of their day--redefined consciousness--problems arose when they were there--when they weren’t, and you didn’t know if you had any was the oppositional view. Drifting away from reality was such an underestimated and under-appreciated delicacy--a fortune everyone was distracted to realize--and being out of place, not in tune--the instrument would not make the right noise--but it would still make noise. When he and Paris would know nothing, and their weariness of everything would overpower their urge to stay awake--trance of sleep--it would come, and they would understand so much that they would love it--and the rain and lights of the big cities would make them sleep in the most questionable places such as their mobile vehicle of transportation and public bedrooms--the ones the man had to pay, and did not like the word. But he would want to go there--it was such a dreamland--and he knew that would be the closest to paradise, that feeling of wonder and enlightenment, of out of place-ness. It was too alien, and that was what he liked--yet also hated. Not knowing why as well, of course. 

The mediocracy of snowfall shan’t wake him up yet it did--and the slightest pounds of it against the window would be so loud. So loud! Covering ears would be inquired--and he did not need it, anyway. Yet he did, so he would not know what to do. Sensitivity had never been his excruciation, all of a sudden his internal delusion was concluding its slumber--and the humble awakening of it was not to be conceptualized as abstractly joyful. And he had never seen snow before--he would believe so, though he had seen it last year, dived into it even--and the year before that--ages in between. He would ask Paris, “How did we make a snowman, before?” Paris would not be so interested in matters such as those anymore, yet she knew she should be. Then: “How did we use to do our snowball fights? How did we use to jump in the snow piles? How did we trip each other into the snow, and then make those fluttering angel figures?” She did not know, she did not know, she did not know, she would say. And all hope was lost until she would say, “How about we find out again?”

Outside they went. And they did so quickly--and Paris would laugh every time he would throw the solid-like water at her. The neighbours would think kids, then open the curtains to see the pair--as probable the same age as they were--and dazzling confusion would overwhelm them. Yet they would not understand the true wonder and--dare the man say it--happiness as them two. 

“I miss this,” Paris would say. And although he never said such things as those, he knew it to be true for him as well. The reason he never would say--not because she already knew--but he did not like sentences like those. They did not make him happy or sad, and they were inconvenient, cumbersome, inopportune--and awkwardness was an ally in his lonesome adventures--it never helped, though, and that’s why he hated it--but describing a feeling that could not be described was an agony. Perhaps Cecil would know, but he would not ask. No, he never would. That was out of character--and he liked staying it character--it had no advancements and beneficials but it did to him--and Paris, too. Sometimes he wished he could morph into a new person--though he never did, and he knew that. Then, perhaps, he wished that he wished that sometimes he wanted to. And it would continue on until the deeply buried truth was found. 

If Cecil was like him? She would never be able to describe the feeling as well. Conniptions would consume him if she were able to--they consumed him all the time anyway--and contemporary entitlement to the shadows unsettling--his transcendence into the dark world would amuse him, perhaps. He reckoned his jovial behaviour would cease--if it had ever began--and his dangling uncertainty of the laying of ahead would encounter the dinguses for sure--they were always around him, every day--and they would never leave. They were what the collective term described as the “public.” But being a lycan who would show itself at night would haunt no one but himself--and if truthiness was at ease, then risking his identity in the name of honour and self-regulation of the image he sold to the other creatures would generate. 

But the surpluses and deficiencies of couplings was hard enough--the bells would whistle--and people would ask, “Why do you not have a ring,” and he’d say he did not need one, and when they would extend their inquiry even further in the heat and tenseness of uncomfortableness (that would be presently and evidently shown at the moment), Paris would take him outside to cool his breath--and remind him they did not have to enter places such as those anymore. 

Trashy and fake were synonyms and he would say to them, “Get real,” but never would they listen, no. They never did, and this time, it was stubbornness, not persistence. Such ignorance pained him--the searing of his face was ember, it would rot--and they’d say he was the one unreal and he would retaliate--emotions the better of him once more--and Paris would hold him back and tell him bar fights weren’t inevitable, and they were useless--and she would be right so he would pay and leave--but normality and realism were such pains to him, and the thought of living confined to them was so much painfulness--deep in pain he would be if he had opposed what he knew, what was given to him in spite or grace--unknown to him, and us all, truly. 

“A coward! A filthy coward!” Spit would be felt. Trite this was--he would never get used to it. 

He would need Paris to say to him as he would get angry at the assailant, “Calm. Not worth a single penny to you, is it now? And the sea monster would return once more.”

Fists unclenched, but not teeth: “I’d say lay your tongue on that darned word once more and I’d call filthy on your foolishness. The anthem will never sing of high storms and rainy seas again. Thunder, I reckon, will be seldom heard now.”

But he was not one to get angry--and he wanted to look that way, stay that way--although emotions were transparent, so was his mind--and the opposing man would prepare but he would storm the door and slam it--and he would laugh but he would be laughing also--an ornament of willingness unable to grasp an alteration and testimony. 

“Aw, coward! Aye, glut that pathos and misery, shambles! Get back ear! And you, woman! Don’t you leave my calls unheard! You ain’t got a ring on him--him too--he is entitled to no one!”

Maybe he would be wrong--the rain would start. Or it would be the assailant’s spit. It just would not ignite--and he needn’t a protection. Paris thought he did--she raised the umbrella of symbolism over his head. She would act and look grim but then slowly slip in a smile. 

“What?” he’d ask--he hadn’t time for her. At least not now--could she not see?

“I’d say you were the stronger one back there. Standing up and all for me but knowing not to engage.”

“I’d say it was mistaken for you to entrap my kinaesthetic duty.”

“Is that so?” She pulled him closer--the umbrella was tightly due under a range of smallness and rain was an obstacle and punishment he knew she did not want him to deserve--and he knew he didn’t. No one did. 

“I don’t need a ring.”

“They don’t know that.”

“They don’t need to.”

“I suppose so. But they don’t understand. They’re clueless about their own ways--only traditional ones excite them. And their eagerness for adaptation, adjustment, revampnesn--gastric is their pitiful pain! Importance is healthy--and quests for gold and treasure requires a guidance of some sort, a map--you would never tolerate a map, how could they also? Your love to make your own maps is as much as for me--and they love their rifles, always hunting rifles. Animals slain would be in vain, ludicrous, nonsensical, outrageous to the max. Always hunting rifles.”

He did not understand why they would hunt rifles--as far as he knew they provided no game meat--and a warm, relaxing fire was what he wanted, not incessancy of falling water pieces and Paris talk--he loved one or the either, dying would be his choice if he had to pick. Caught up in their lives? Possibly. But the relaxation instinct was there and soothing--once a soothingness evaporates, it’s gone, and that was why it was so treasured. 

Distant cousin truth syndrome of pestilence and dishonesty--he would say it, then. When he had been a mere convergence of eleven composite combinational hours of three hundred sixty-five, distant cousins had never amused him--and so forth was their false shadow of intent that it bothered him to the core (never or necessary malevolence, but trying to concede a conveying compliance was quenchable). A hath-away and kaleidoscopic of mirage of speaking to him. Seldomness, pursuing what was a transponder was imminent in his decisioning, a must, yes. So he would speak, “I am not very close to you, no. Not at all. I wish to be. And although we see each other once a year, perhaps less, I want to speak to you lots so we may become closer and less than distant cousins. Perhaps we may even start at that step? Liars would not accept that I barely talk to you.”

This would--in turn--abbreviate their responses--aberrance would make their way into their minds concealing the fodder of reputation of him--poor him--and they would not speak to him again. Oh well. Worthwhile. But strange utopian feelings and loneliness of a world would not be his countenance and permitted, and so tiresome was he, that he would care at all less than the person who cared the least in the world--him, that would be. If the bending of the vexing of his literal being would not cease to not start, he would not try. And anthems ended but they could be sung again. Let it try. His blood pump would not waste a pint of blood--he’d rather drink it--and who knew, his blood pump must have wanted to, too. 

When he was thirty--graciousness, linters, ternate--past the almighty--gingerly, they came in tertiary degrees of magnitude so overloaded in personal and coupling achievement whelm--Paris was so happy but he would not say for himself--ah! They were cute, alright. 

“Child,” he would say (Paris would scold him for no baby talk, and sternness wasn’t a great primary impression). Person creature smallness--he remembered it. Made of flesh and bone yet so not--more than that, it was. But his mind was nothing but an empty void, sullen and dark, pitiful. That was how it had always been, how it would continue to be.

Unless it would be filled with grand things, of course. Things beyond the incomprehension of the simple-minded human creature, yes. Oh, how empty it begins! And at first it is nothing. But all the wonders--all the colours! Soon it would be worth more than anyone could ever imagine--the tools were at his fingertips. It all began with his birth, her birth, the birth of hers after that. Degradation--he would like to believe, but he would be hated for that--sometimes hatred had to be concealed if he wanted to stay hated. 

Past the, “What shall we name him/her?” and all that, he was reluctant to have them in the household. Reluctance was something Paris ignored, although--he loved her for that--and delightfulness was such a transcribe in its sense--you had to see it for yourself and your optics their wonder. And call him, “Cosmos,” he said. Do so. 

“Hehe, come play with us, Cosmos,” hollering would stray down the stairwell, sparking the provocation of his sisters--idiosyncrasy was expected from such youngness. 

“Cosmos! Cosmos! Down the path to Cosmos! Feast your sight and shelter your might from Cosmos! Cosmos!”

“Feats no ordinary!” chiming in, his charming and obedient pets, “Feets that sure are smelly!”

The first one would be Cecil to remind him of the unordinary and possibility of alternate futurism--what might have been of he had went with her (Paris was venturing in that categorization, unafraid to brave that expected phobia of his)--secondary naming was important but hesitant and she was Dalia, the utopian and idyllic unknown--lastly (she would cry at that word, every time the man would explain the oncelers to a publicity figure) Violet, a name he hated but Paris liked. Dictating wasn’t kind, he supposed. 

There would be no faraway distances and knitting on faraway rear-supporters outside in a light, vibrant, yellow and greenish field of tall blades. He would put down the telescope, the microscope, the kaleidoscope, and attempt to experience first-hand--the studies of naturism and nurturing, sects and wisps of heralding would comb his threats of fear and flight.

Souls burdened no value at times--as though they would--and had he ever told Paris how his entrancing and encapsulating mind wandered and never let him sleep? Smitten was he that lynching his own mind and body out of spite and segregation was a valid option, and prior to that his lividness would have. But the pragmatic clockworks of the finitism in his bloodstream shown--an affinity to segregated--he was archetypal, and that was known. The world could go without him--it would still be fine. Sometimes that was considered best in his mind--that he made things worse was a definite likelihood--and they would call out for each other and care but not for him, no, never for him--connection strength was a falling precipice in his jurisdiction. 

But the time would come--and he would be loved. Belonging was an impurity and sacrificial frantic, a qualitative of the elucidation of a person creature--so fantastic was one that a piece was missing if not so. And every person he would meet he felt as if he needed to prove his self-worth and life accomplishments to them, over and over again and again and once more and once more. A record would do no good--they needn’t to bother reading those, and they never did. No, they listened, not read--and staying a voice for the voiceless and the powerful for the powerless was a must. 

We are all sundials--we could be, if we stood--and people did not understand that. That they were already something they hadn’t known prior. A shame, it was, too. Potential was limited, sometimes wasted. And there was a time he did not believe so, and freelancing was an unmistakable misdemeanour, grand if so--that which, portrayal was a matter no more in his eyes. But back then. 

It had been the beginning of fall when he was five and his sweet Paris would watch the scary movies with him and play the physical games and ignore the other girls in the school yard and optimize the obsessions that her mother did not like and--and one day it was too much and he felt the phoniness and he yelled at her, “Stop playing with me! Go get your dolls and kitchen toys and finally be a girl!” 

She burst into tears and ran to her mother. Naivety was sacred to a youngling--unknowingness held prices--and he was infinitely sure that if he told her about that today she would tell her that never happened--a genuine forgetting as well--and kindness would be the explanation, but he had stooped low at that point--and she had cried all night but the next day she said, “Let’s play,” and they played together and he was glad that she would. 

Gee, mighty the pain--holding its crumbled asinine and dexterity, leeward through the hemlock grandiose--they ran by and rolled and spat and littered and drank and texted and blared their satisfactory, enjoyable noise and hollered and honked and waved and whistled and called and ate--but no matter what they did they never seemed to stop by the road and help him. He held no amount of transparency, you see--but he would stand by the road and notice that none of them cared about an insignificant gnat at the side. And they would pass him never knowing that he had pushed Paris too hard on the swing once and she fell in wood chips, or that he had ambiguously excreted in the woods adventure, or that Eli had once barrelled him with a bicycle into a deep dirt ditch, or that his father once spanked him for derogatory, pejorative transgressions, deprecatory, disparaging behaviours and comportments; he had once climbed a tree and cried at Paris that he could not get down, stepped on an ant then cried for it, drank water and almost drowned, vandalizing a rabbit hole then leaving some twenty cash for it and wished him well repairs and sincere expressions of regrets (the bunny rabbit would thank him for the cash, he presumed).

But paramedic!--sycamores, parabolas, winchester held the mighty cargo--envy and grains of salt--evading, paraphrasing, quibbles, the fastness of such rubber, the screeching of such brakes--and the paramount of such intensity was gratifying. If he was jocular, in good spirits, they’d have sped by relentlessly--if he was ill or broken, they’d have sped by relentlessly. It seemed they always assumed the latter and that was how it was--and if they had known that he had laughed at Paris when she had wood chips in her hair, or that he had placed flowers around the dead, crushed ant on the pavement tiles and wiped his tears--they’d not know and speed by relentlessly. How could they know? And he would curse at each one, waiting for the day when one would stop by the road, uncaring of the traffic causation of the deed, and ask him, “How did Paris feel after the fall?” or, “I thank you to honour a life, no matter how small,” and he would answer either and the man or woman would say okay and get back in the car, driving away--but this time, relentlessly not, no--this time, left with the knowledge of him. That one would not know before, but since that one had stopped, that one now knew. 

Strange feelings, insights--deft and gamble scores and forth rightful fortnights, forthrights, for nights, four nite, and fort knights. Ah! He would be confused all day and would not live that day--and when he would eat his mother would say, “Eat!” and when he would play Paris would say, “Play!” But in those moments he could not live.

Transcends--ticking time-tellers, gloved tiptops--his willingness to stay inconspicuous was an alleged price on his success--he was allergic to falsity and uselessness (he did not know how one could not be) and denunciation of austere magnitudes was a declaration of innocence missing, and what a novel idea! 

When he would sit in that dark attic bedroom of his with the door open and the light from the hallway inescapable and annoying, he would stay in his bed. Then he would sit there and scream. Then he would bawl into a waterfall of tears (he would say it would not be metaphorical whatsoever), and he did not know why. He never did. 

Then Paris would hear his tears from a mile away and argue with his mother and then put an arm around him and he would ask why and she would say because evenness and debt was something she valued. 

“When was the last time I practiced such kindness?”

“Oh!” She would take the time to think. “Years ago.”

“Why must you use such an old example? I’m sure that isn’t the most recent.”

“Surely. And?”

“And what scalage of the nonsensical, please.”

“You called me a minx. I burst into tears. But then, later, you sat by me on the porch and helped me feel better.”

“But I had done the action?”

“Yes so, the yearning of invalidity was present not. In a weak moment, one does not care. You were there for me, and that was what mattered to me. What matters to all, it should--none take the advice, adhere so.” 

That would make him think. That would make him know that she was right.

But now in the day, his own offspring were interminable and unending in debates--toys had to be recollected and redistributed after tears of ownership belief and territories--ah, yes! They were such territorial creatures--they had to be set. They were distant yet close, and such ability to run! He had wished he had it still--and of course, he did, but when they said come and grabbed his hand to pull him to go faster at what amazing and wonderful beholding sight that had entrapped, caught their fascination--he could not be seen running! He was an adult! No! 

Dalia laughed--“You’re very slow, Cosmos!”

“Do you know I am your father?”

She would knit the strands of hair above her optics and say, “Why, yes of course, father--er, Cosmos.”

He would nod. “Good.”

“Why do you ask?”

“I needn’t a reason. And don’t think of this as an oddity.”

“Sir.”

But an old man could run--he just could not. Yet, he knew they could--vertical, ferociously--telegraph such metres, to attest. 

Nabs, they came as though each a hundred--a pulling rope at a signature calling--of course! He had been living life so fast and vastly, content at all its content, the forgotten scribal schemes and stratagems of dream, destiny starvation haunts--he would write once more, again, over, repeat, regress, recess, danish that exoduses wonder! That might! He shall, hurrah! And if fame and fortune would outwit him in the battle then firelight and foresight would aid his peripherals--kings of kingdoms and emperors of empires fell often as not--shame it would be if they had not a single time. Although, this forgotten stance was a standstill breaker--when he was twelve it came and it came again--he liked to believe decades hadn’t gone by. He would so.

Wiry--shape-shift, hereby, heredity--symmetry and compulsory were intrusiveness--simulating an entity epic was a misnomer--sedated by acts of green and red. And elation would be high but tense, then gone in a split-second. That’s how it was with him. And he would rather have no elation at all--wind helm, through the roof--bases deprived of confinement shape--tantrum vitalizing--lester thy enemy--polar oppositional, feeble, rationalizations of indictments and fortitudes--of scriptures that would be ancient and classical. Such mania was unbelievably undermining, vetoed a way, astronomically feasible. Despondencies and dejections--such pains--and regenesis would disapprove continuously, its tyrannical favours sizing up his lack of true grandness. 

His attempted car purchase: “How slow can it go?”

“I do not know, pal. What kind of question is that? I suppose, zero kilometres per hour.”

“It’s an inquisitive one. And it cannot be zero, that would insinuate that the car is not going at all.”

“Then I truly am sorry to find no answer, pal.”

Words he often heard to himself. “I do not want to buy it, then.” How oblivious could the creators be to their own creation? The unknowingness of their own product they attempted to sell--mesmerizing, testifying, evisceration heed--underlying!

“Y’all’ll’nt’ve’d’s fearful--tenderization of notational virtues. If you are at zero then I don’t expect you to ever buy one, pal. You don’t need one.”

True, true. Courageous he was--the man would say so himself and regret his regretting, poised though--hands at his sides. Showcase an innerness. Mind at ease. No, he knew! No, he didn’t. He did not want him to. Mind-illiterate everyone was anyway. But such arrogance and pain of a contact unusual--sun and moon--the seller had such cold hands, he could feel it, and a loud voice! Terrible--condescending, intermediate--a tribuneship of allegorically challenged. Cecil never believed in turn-taking, but now it was his. What if he did not want to--choked! An outstanding idea!

“Sir, are you alright?”

“Why, yes.”

Then he would think it was his own cell optics deceiving him. Out he would be, then. And he was. Then the seller would blink and think of the happenstance of oddity and bewail, behold--a great episode of grand escapists. 

Next would be his inerrancy of the things many at his age would like. The sport of less-short cylinders with less-comparatively reduced sized pieces at last edge of timeline for making contact with and spherical athletic pastime equipment wanting to discover a thing wanted to be discovered. At times it seemed the ball hit his club, not the other way around--a conundrum within his spectrum of succinct simian thinking organ perceptions. 

“Where’d it go, pal?” He’d raise his hand above his optical sensors to cover essential everyday tools against a harsh-bearing collection of rays from an incessant yet entirely necessary (inevitable doom with its obituary--an obligatory stature in the void of airspace and oxygen induced gas dome) so-called ball of heat-producing, nuclear light-giver that provided a causation--for scientists--of day. 

“Dunno, pal, sorry, pal.”

“I ain’t grabbing that.”

“What my--ownership instigated--life partner said.”

They’d laugh burst--oh, so loud as well--and he wanted to cover his ears since such stupidity couldn’t enter his ears! Oh no! When it did, it did--and he did not want it to--but it did. Such physical suffering. Hardships enduring. 

So it wasn’t for him, then. Paris--at his sleeping conductor, a help for the weak and in need of rest--a how was your day--a returned okay--demolished his spirits, though, and he knew inquiry would be incoming--yes. 

“You did not call me pal,” he said. 

“Why yes, why would I?”

“I do not know why you would, either. And my children don’t and my relatives don’t and my friends don’t and the person who speaks to me whenever I look in the sending-back of light and imagery in front of that glass-built, framed object of usefulness in the bathroom--don’t call me pal either. Yet I hear it from every person I look with my optics at in the collection of skyscrapers, the shop full of wake-up-juice and weary morning customers, and the monsters under the bed.”

“It was merely a suggestion.”

“I know so.”

“I will make it up to you.”

“I do not hope so.”

Find out what he wanted! Dearly, it was a case of hardness when it shouldn’t be--an offer of pleasurable activity in his sleep conductor was there, and one he would enjoy (physically) with his privateness of his primate instinctual--there at birth of civilization to ensure a continuation of time for his wake-up-juice drinkers--his kind, he supposed--he did not like to call them that for he was not proud of them. He never was. 

Paris--sweet Paris--shoulders up and down--an I suppose--then the lost of consciousness and alertness as her body centre rose up and down but her optics were uncorking and out of shift. And he would follow along but he knew he never did--he wanted to, and he did sometimes--but he never did. So balcony was reachable--a why not--a confusion and worry of next day, his health, and Paris’s dopamine--which he would never understand. 

“Good night, children,” he would say. They did not hear him--they never did, in fact, and he wondered why--and they were always in their sleep conductors, sleep producers--looking the same as Paris (after a few minutes of relaxation and time given). He would retain a saliva amount when he brought his eating to their side faces. Perhaps one would smile in secrecy--he’d like to believe so. He wished so. Perhaps such saddening of a seemingly single birth-giver was enough to lure a basis of anger. He’d understand. At a certain age he had once--so he would so when they would be too. No one seemed to remember that, despite being a parental incubator and sitter of the tiny people. 

And one day his father would have his sentience force ended. That day came. 

Of course, unexpectedly. His name was Reverence. And he was never ubiquitous, but a father nonetheless.

But then he would see her--dear, sweet Dalia--twirling her hair and smiling. Oblivious. And it would be a shame to see the sight ruined--of course--but news were news and reality was fixed. He’d say Grandpa had gone on an extremely long trip, one that was unproblematic--and avoiding her quips of question, as he’d retain his value of innocence--of hers--ah, yes, retainment was good, he agreed to that, especially since it began as a promise of dutifulness. Redeeming memoirs suited his anxiety in the futures. To honour death, one must honour life. 

And so every earth-spin from there, the ones that those of innocence and naivety called sunrises, would he ritualistically scrutinize with utter oppression the sky of darkness and blinking lightbulbs--the constellations of ultimatum transcendence, vitalized by him, so, therefore--henceforth his happy sadness and sad happiness that would prolong its existence till the end of everything. So hard that tears formed--eyes as if rubbed, with redness. The roses in his cheeks aligned and altered in height, now in optical sensors of his upper thinking organ encapsulation. Traipsing through life was a mystery, and it would always be--how could it not, since, it always was?

Misconceptions, misperceptions--real thinkers were weary of them all in the current version of the rock-ball, moulded carefully by space and time, existence and fate. Concoctions of surrealism were devised in order to eliminate the thoughts of unorthodox indoctrination. For example, a book allowed one to escape with immersive capabilities and addictive realities--far better than one’s own. This amassing assimilation into true falseness was on a rise to enrapture yet capture every person creature. Gruelling was it to edit. 

If he was to be the embodying incarnation of inner purity, if he was to never seek the enthusiastic desires of the masses--people would dislike him--so be it. 

The problematic--those yap-hobbers with their thingamajigs and whatchamacallits. So entranced, no, so obsessed with such gracelessness. Such impurity. He hated to specify but he would have to do so to the boylessness-holders, whose self-esteem, after years of pitiful approval-begging and affection-seeking through cyber ways, were the culprits. Aye, they never learned--and how they would, if they ever did, was through the instances in gearshift, rendering it too late. 

When he would be done with his earthly pilgrimage, and his mortality would come to an end, the finality of fate would have its reign of exuberance. Infirm churchyards and graveyards--just like his male birth-giver. Delusional, they’d say, when he claimed that ends never existed. That the man he had spent his wholly life with, and the boy the man had spent half his life with, had a relationship that continued after a bearer’s deceiving death. Which, to say, nonchalance was at its curfew, they expected--but not for him, who had them in disdain merely because all they ever desired was to see him in a melancholic state. And why? Because that’s what normal people did. That’s what they were, after the death of their male birth-giver. He could go on and on about it. 

And so--they would remain respectfully disrespectful--having an apathetic decimation, even watching it. Paris would look away and hold him, burying her optical sensors in his arm-torso joint--scolded to be the other way around was he. So much, oh, so much. His offspring, the brethren of the next generation, reminiscing and sympathizing the one two above them. Watching as he burned, burned, burned! Maniacal laughter ensued, for a madman. 

But the disembodiment, which most would agree to be non-improvable and irreversible, was noncommittally a stop sign--a travesty. Though the father-in-law that she hadn’t known well, he was the gallant between him and Paris. Paris smiled in tears and cried in laughter.

“I wish I can be like you,” she said. “You act burden-less.”

“You do not wish to be like me.”

“I’m untrodden in your ways. Yet, so intrusive! How much do you like it?”

“None at all. If I had pure empathy I know it would pain you. Alas, I am restricted by nonconformity, while others would say I am free because of it. The everlasting, unsavoury fiasco of my thinking organ berates my ability to exist as a wake-up-juice drinker, like you all. It does. I am an overzealous crucible. My abilities beyond comprehension--a laughable thought. Tidbits of unwieldy--they carry my jagged form, of genealogy that starts with me. Garrisons of intruders, though incredibly unlikely to help the castle--and parallel perpendiculars, and perpendicular parallels. My distinction is curative to you--you like my difference. But only to parse, never to be.”

“That is not true.”

“Oh, but it is.”

And then the warm arm-wraparound, the cooling of his temperature, and ease. Utter, delightful, magnificent and pure ease, virtually nothing else. An exhale. Such strange concepts--all this happened within a split-second, and he did not know why, he never would know why. He wished he did, and he did, yet he didn’t. Yet he did. 

“I don’t know either,” she sighed. “But it happens. Embraces ease. Rock-ball laws. Not set in rock, yet understood by all. The progeny of our doing have their batteries recharging, do they not?”

How frumpy was she to have a relinquishing thought--varnished in no loath to success as a partner. And she was lithe, electrifying--he’d say so. Euphoria entered as did she in his thinking organ relapses. Mulling after warbled thoughts got people killed--it released what they did not want. Hunger was only satisfied with food--others were infinite, and everyone had those others. The flesh of human--but not to eat. To admire--in its shape. 

Anecdotes--about insecurity--and it was a liable incentive to excuse for embarrassing behaviours. To mask guilt. But masks weren’t permanent, no. They never were. 

The cure for chronic loneliness--was it not chronic loneliness? As any other social interaction would poison the victim further, what was familiar set off no reactions, and was a safety precaution. He was an expert in this category--he’d like to say so. But the deficit was too high, expendable--and because so, he was confoundedly annoyed to an extent grater than his resentment. His deep wanting of a respected luminary status was farther than a dinghy on a jabberwocky-induced ocean on a high-tailed revering, rending, visage of the water deity. To be effervescent, one must contain a natural, original, born clairvoyance of the vision. How dandy would it be if one has so little of not--and of course, enthused would the happy man be. The man did not know when he would ever feel the reality of it, seemingly never. It would always be those unmatchable, un-attachable and un-dispatchable prostheses. Unremovable, lingered in all its glory to the end of the glory days, which was never for the deities. 

For the exclusionary of the ancient was, the man told them--“O, hereby, hear, bye. Through the lethargic tumults of the depressive days, to the rank high axels of the angelic ways. From the towers of pitfall and skyward--henceforward their pleas, the pursuit of virtuosos bring them down to their knees.”

And it was true! That’s all they ever wanted! Differ, uniqueness, reversed sameness, but they never found it, for they always found solitude in a home of comfort in themselves’ group. The boring ones were interesting when they said they were, since they sayers were the same as them all. Those who sought scholarly justice, wanted never a bully to find them in their rightful places--as they would never interrupt one of their games. 

And timeless pieces of whatever type of work contained elements that deemed themselves anachronistically. That was how they had to be in order to prove universality. And he would accomplish so, he knew--yet he didn’t, or, he wasn’t sure. Wasn’t sure at all. But now he knew that what came before his syncretized yet conflicting endeavours was what entertained his innerness and not him. 

He did not like eventuality, or the eventuality of eventuality, for that matter. 

Like the songbirds of the wind and the nightingales of the volcanoes. He would annul them. Whether a rainbow or a raincloud, still a rain being. Though that was undefined--and never confirmed--and it seemed not one believed it, though all ones said they did. 

Sigh, but natural selection would take its course. The uglies were uglies because only the uglies wanted uglies. Beauty and materialism were the forefronts of idolatry for most--to want the two was natural. But it only produced a superabundant profusion of self-deprecation, almost in a reflex pattern. Wake up at five every day for worm. Worm or work? If worm, idiom’s purpose complete of the early bird. But if work, more (seemingly) real, more realistic, more understandable. But why could it not be the first? The first was a mistake but if he said it wasn’t, then it wasn’t! IT WASN’T!

“If I’d’t’ve done so. If only,” he said one night. 

“Perhaps,” said Paris. 

And then, synonymously to ridiculous, he received an urge in his throat. It was painful at first, and they came in bursts. One hiccup. Two. He could not stop them. They arrived, and they arrived fast! In the most dramatic and climactic way possible!

“You’re laughing.” Paris was nothing but amazed. She would be a full-fledged liar later on when she would say she wasn’t. 

“I am,” he said. But it was not as powerful as he thought, and he feared his bipolarity would ensue after, since a wave of gloominess seemed to wash over his collection of organs and bone (and memories) and he thought he would cry. Not because of a thing, but because of that thing. Because he laughed and he didn’t want to laugh or else he would be called different now. He found comfort in the solace of loneliness. Didn’t all?

“And why did your lungs support such great capacity to heave in the currency of the moment?”

“What great wonder!--It all began here, and here, I say. When I had received a headache in the rain, and I dictated my will--which sadly did not work--to it: ‘Make it go!’ So it would leave, which I hope did not stutter some confusion. My message mustn’t be redacted, and naked with no merciful shame of the ulterior motives. And perhaps I found this sanctimonious humour--which I am the word itself, I would not lie to you, my dear, sweet Paris--” (she placed her eating organ gracefully and lovingly on his for that) “--to be oddly strange, and strangely odd. But cut all the sordid vicissitudes, ignore the stray thoughts. I mean to say, I could have said, ‘Make it stop!’ and it would serve absolute no difference. No complete difference, though complete opposites.”

She laughed--for politeness, he did not know--and she blinked. Hold, she always blinked. 

“Shall we?”

“I hope so. I would love to do it but I also hate the mood.”

The next day: “And did, we shall.”

It was pleasuring, he would say. 

“We were born in a recent time when we think person creatures, how we live have always been how person creatures lived and existed. And it’s mighty terrifying to say that isn’t the case.”

“True to that, my fellow companionship in the sleep-conductor. That fills me with unreal, undeniable, and ultimately powerful satisfactory enjoyment. Sometimes multiple, with your intentional skill. Noise of a tiger-cat.”

“That I’ll like?”

“That you’ll like. And give you that feeling of wanting to do it again.”

“True to that, too, my dear, sweet Paris, whose intents are not platonic, but they have always been in my eyes. Since the dawn of time.”

“Trees: they are selfish and corrupt like humans. They grow and grow from the sunlight and rain, and when they grow big they shadow over the entire forest, getting all the sunlight and rain. Trees who get most sunlight and rain grow wide to cover and give shade to those around it to make them less of what they could be, de-potentializing their indemnity and kinetics. And so they can grow more, with the corruption of power and greed.”

The man winked at her. “But so, even so you say, sometimes, they do so in order to provide protection for the other trees. They take all the lightning during the storm--and, when they are big enough, they can suit large amounts of the living for free, being merciful in its bountiful joys. And yet you call them selfish.”

His lexicon was plexiglass, and a wad bit of mutagen outage of tetralogy.

“Why must you be at a literal standstill?” the pal-callers would say.

“Postponing the inevitable death of the universe. You may now call me your saviour. By existing, you are killing everything in existence.”

They’d shrug his nonsensical ways, but to a degree, of course--for when the time would come, and it would come, their toxicologies would be regrettably and embarrassingly wrong--outdated. In the midst of their befuddlement would they declare their kinship to his sublime deeds, which were indispensable, once again, to a marginal degree of standard. Their cries were unscathed emanations of their tortured souls, and they would acknowledge his exalted presence. His forlorn concord of torrential bluster was achromatic. Aye, but rainbows could not be but filled, and if so, achromatic, then a blunder for his almighty brashness. 

Bashful was he--yet unerring was she. That was enough reason--for him to listen--yet it was not in the mind of the man. Because that was his mind, and we are all familiar with his mind at this point in continuum (imagined flow of reality’s line events). 

“I was the prototype for righteousness and freedom.”

He would never understand that frightening word. The emotion that supposedly originated from the muscle that pumped the vascular red liquid needed to survive. He wanted to be everything-savvy. There were person creatures unlike him and person creatures like him--that would be at the most--a smaller chance for the latter to happen--and so if he transitioned to the other side…

The line between euphoria and depression was bleak. During summers his dwindled happiness was defying a resonation of existence. He was in that intersecting emotion that left him shook and spooked, and he didn’t know what it had to do with--yet he had it before, he knew--times when he just didn’t feel like himself. Times when all hope was lost yet the world around him carried on as if nothing was happening--a singularized apocalypse. If he was able to deploy a legion of warriors to display his well-known and doubtless array of intelligence, perhaps turmoil would repent--perhaps he would no longer be described as being obliterated by torment every second of his livingness.

Aloof was the rock-ball--he would be excused by the ravishments and vicious rupturing of the monster representing being on the brink of lamentable and woeful state. It was not so much as to be described as a form of depression, no. It was much more than that. Worse because it wasn’t, better because it wasn’t as well.

In fact, the only true way of understanding the certain pain he had always known was to be alike. But only the ordained could bless his soul now, and channel their empathetic powers and savouries into his innerness. Embellishments came and went and gone and tried to fix him, as he welcomed them so. But they were endlessly trivial--he knew so--he wandered so--he wondered why so. Perhaps the dispersal of his full whimsicalness was at hand. 

The state was indescribable. It could only be close--prophecy. That’s what he intended to call it. It happened most when the cycle of light neared its end every double-dozen hours. During that time he would wonder if he could tell the future and he was shameless. He could confess anything so--Paris would never hear the things he had to say. Never to her, no. Only to himself, and to his best friend, which was himself. 

He would imagine a time when he saw her--the very first one--with eyes full of unmistakable merriment, so much as to make him consider her disdained to him. He was simply meagre in charm and wit. 

Thought of seriousness--worthless in work. Then the opposite--the never-appearing of profundity most moderners had so much attention to, an appealing characteristic he found had an insurmountable opposition to piquantness. 

He wondered if the trick to it was to be culling. Simply knowing what to say--the perfect thing to say--every single moment like a veranda always upheld for rain. Because brothers were entirely separate from lovers. 

And they were lying creatures--dishonest, to be in tune with truth--the boylessness-holders. Always hinting leading to a false assumption. And fairly, the reversed-boylessness-holders were never in line with integrity either. But the reversed-reversed-boylessness-holders were targets of the reversed-reversed-reversed-boylessness-holders, and they required attention. Too much would be deemed unnecessary, sometimes unacceptable, and too little would drive them away, which was a paradox he could not contain within his own cells. If he obtained an inferiority complex from unhealthy events in his life that cast an unforgiving amount of pain each time--his inner and strengthened caliber of transitory tolerance for it would meet its final destination for the first and last time in his life-string. 

Emotion--but that was strong. And if that lead his string, if it decided his ambience tone forever, did he deserve to be a person-creature? Or was he subsided by the relishing fact of everything going to be okay? Ah, yet the obsequies would be there for him in his time. The time when at the end of the summer, all was lost. 

He still could not and would never describe the feeling of inner pity and self-wallowing downing. If his prophecy state succeeded--the time would come he would confess. And the whereabouts and hereabouts would all be fine-tuned into one gigantic place, a celestial and astral imagery of the collection of his individual spirit.

As bright as a campion. He didn’t think the creature understood how perfect it was. How just the way it swayed made him have the prophecy state. The indescribable feeling of wanting everything to stop all at once yet not wanting it to as well. And if he was to be the ultimatum of contrarianism--well--well--so be it.

But it was his fascination of what the creature thought about him. What boggled his mind was how, if he wanted to be his full prophecy state of absolutism and spherical stature of purity, wonder, god-likeness and advanced enlightenment, how could a collection of organs, tissue, and bones melded into a desirable shape, made of matter from cells from molecules from atoms from sub-atomic particles from quarks from nothingness of oblivion from the very first nova explosion of the universe, one of the two types in a species (opposite to him, the supposed natural way it was supposed to be)--to be so… so… attracted to it! To wonder every second what it was thinking of him--to have every moment in a state of formless escapism? To have a fearless and dauntless task of being capable to pursue such wonder, one no more different than he, yet so disturbing and perturbing to allow to be able to exist. A rechecking of his mind, perhaps, a clocking-reset was necessary to return to the former ways. How could one creature that was him be so daunting? How could the likability of his own be so dependent on an emotion factor that was determined by his actions toward the perfect creature? And--actions that must be done rightly so--for the creature would leave in an instant without an admiration confession or an admitting of his humanity.

Why could everyone not just find such a creature and love it till the end of time? Without playing the game of catch--inevitably just acquiring the creature that they desired--a fish on a hook. 

It was simply so macabre to come to the understanding and final realization that partners were caught--and aloneness was the only entire sourness one was granted in an existence of the homo sapiens. The only thing that one would be entirely and expectedly sure about, never ceasing to belong to it, cherish it, be with it. If aloneness was what it took to approve the worth of a person creature, then one must allow such to conquer the sentience force. The yaks in the north--they would bow down to the master of loneliness, knowing that the master was he who is great and sublime only because of the never-catch rule they were a bystander for. Dictated by another--never a possibility for those sovereign overlords. Such a skill to have in a world where puzzle-piecing was such a valuableness that produced such volubility. 

And he had met many of the reversed-profound. They were so dwindled in intelligence, he felt as if he was talking to a potato whenever with one. It was such a disappointment because he never understood how between the two of them, how the monumental gap of difference came to be, when in so many uncountable ways, they were exactly the same. They shared a sentience force, organs, and the existence of being a person creature was enough too. And all the potatoes had one exact thing in common--which was a tragedy--they all only wanted to ever have fun. 

The rest of the non-potatoes set aside that craving for something more profound, heartfelt, sincere. Too overwhelming for the vegetables. They set their blood pumps aside to find their inner and true aspirations. To explore what was more than what they were given to enjoy. To figure out the discovery method--to navigate the stars, to understand the principles of the potatoes, to aggravate the betterment of cosmic scales. To change the massive rock-ball that had enough force to keep the potatoes on itself, while like a bird in a cage they all wanted to be set free, but they would rot without the help of the non-potatoes. The combination was suited best if all were non-potatoes, and the potatoes knew that, but they didn’t end everything manually because of that sole fact, no. They continued to live, waste their lives, go for the apparent-valuable commodity of fun, waste the energy, resources, and food for the non-potatoes who wanted to explore the universe’s possibilities to further understand existence. 

And that’s what they all were. His supposed beloved perfect creature that held infinite boylessness-holder that he would kill for. Was it worth? No, of course not. The creature was a waste of time. It was a waste of food, not even contributing to the advancement of the collections of organs, tissue, bones on a giant magnet rock suspended in a vast sea of blackness filled with burning spheres of light filled with flames, originating from the prototypes of gas that only became dense because of the force of attraction that kept the potatoes on the rock-ball, which, in turn, originated from the cooling of particles that were once so hot they weren’t even particles. Which was only hot because of the explosion that started it all, which kickstarted creation, and formatted the postulations of eternal freedom for all types of biotic or abiotic matter, a giant sandbox for itself to play with itself. Creating existence itself, moulded and taught by fate. 

The cosmos. 

Person creature playing with an animal creature--matter interacting with matter. Only, with deeper meaning. Because for every single piece of building-block that meant nothing, there was a one that meant something. The one that thought, the one that felt, the one that understood. What to understand? Everything. 

From just understanding that they are matter. And that they matter. 

(Perhaps. Most would like to think that, but elementary thoughts of canon could cause unforgivable libel). 

Muse devours, an apparatus, an apparition, and a well-known dream of prophecy--welded by ness. His ness. 

The fate of feeling--the emotion he could not quite place, and no one ever would. 

And finally, the end of everything. 

Pieces of matter was what he was--and yet he knew that. How did he know that, if he was just pieces of matter? How could small parts that knew nothing, make up one big part that knew something? How an ant colony fixated itself: tiny dumb things create one giant smart thing--a hive-mind. Nonsensical, he would say. Nothing closer to absolutism than it, he supposed, so he had nothing but respect. Dead pieces that connected to make one undead piece. A majestic wonderment.

But by who?

“Stop thinking,” said Paris. “Become a potato. Like me.”

“I am sorry, but when one becomes un-potato, he cannot go back to being a potato.”

She frowned. She knew that. But she tried anyway, for the state of reversed-exhilaration was present for them, everyone knew. They never had many friends, and they spent their times dreaming and thinking. For the better of every potato, at the expense of themselves. 

“I care,” she said. “About all this. And you know who I care for that makes that happen. But this is a debilitating overhaul that is taking a toll on your epicentre of sentience force. Ah! You have made me speak your way--that is fine. I care for the person next to me, so, very much.”

He was the person next to her.

“Aye, you have struck the mighty maudlin once more. The girth of knowledge expands when the girth of stupidity decreases. If one has infinite of both, there is an elaborate balance that requires no fuel. An immortal star.”

Albeit, shunted by abscond and liaison, wryly, the sauntering onslaught of never-ending, diminishing possibilities. If he could, he would feed the potatoes to his yaks in the north. But yaks did not eat potatoes, which was the problem. 

He was tachyon, Quincy--ennui diagnosed--and he must quite say, diagnosed by himself--but when people fall asleep, where do they go?

He told Paris once, “I am the ultimate death-postponer, synonymous with life-saver.” For he was the one who so effortlessly stood still on a hill by the sill, overkill. He found consolidation in the fact that deceitfully, he overbore the remnants of a true chivalry-carrier. 

Of course, Paris to be the one acting like a non-potato, would say, “Ah, yes. Because you so effortlessly be lazy, you are a hero of the universe.”

And it was true. But did she know? The achromatic gloom of the nearby towers at fault--they were, in fact, these: backseats, psychiatric, pustule, gangrene, furtively, reverberated, automotive, departure, physiotherapies, embolism, atoll, desecrated, pall, poll, infighting, flux, voucher, midsummer, prepense, pretence, prattle, pored, twinge, shunted, injunction, sulked, aneurysm, prognosis, ascon, apartheid, wrested, bevy, prospective, mixtape, detests, ethnicities, porcelain, temperament, belabour, prescriptive, lamentation, inductive, nautical, uniformly, discomfit, canon-hood, spatiality, busking, consultancy, coalition, preservatives, propensity, fallow, impounded, forthrightly, vivisection, disburse, amiss, desensitized, minimalistic, gargantuan, mar, dubious, manifesto, dilemma, negligent, ado, ebb, purgatory, predicament, afore, absolver, dote, infold, vestal, abound, perjury, procures, recourse, galena, purport, quo, complacent, alloced, allotted, shutter, scarce, mammoth, mammal, fiends, incubation, inundation, spake, entreat, devotion, dedication, battlements, pirogue, prorogue, peevish, harlotry, behests, provisions, exeunt, orisons, receptacle, environed, forefathers, parapet, sabbatical, erstwhile, anther, purview, culprit, indentured, misdemeanour, morphine, hind, collate, astute, reflux, incomparable, mewling, quid, volatile, boisterous, fussing, paradigm, sated, consensus, whelmed, fringe, compunction, germinate, impoverished, agrarian, customary, stoicism, adage, epigram, cataclysmic, stellar, preeminent, contraband, desecrating, punctured, protestations, amiable, affable, suffices, genially, intonations, increments, abhorrence, severity, trepidation, gauging, disjointed, mangled, septic, incarnation, hindsight, trundle, frigidly, innocuously, echelons, dispositions, enviable, whence, hasten, hiatus, eventuated, inkling, vehement, prolific, deluge, fray, cannier, stupefyingly, aggravate, thermodynamic, equilibrium, obliteration, acclimate, infobesity, volition, proliferate, ingenuity, drivelling, lolling, untimely, permeate, conformity, dignitary, fervent, optimality, abstain, pamper, wholistic, affluent, abject, pauper, cannier, callous, auspicious, convened, effusive, exacerbated, incensed, imperative, combative, unperturbed, blithely, trounced, tumultuous, relegated, dolorous, upended, lateral, tenfold, coax, fitfully, throng, bohemian, facetious, excelsis, sanctum, carnal, corralled, caroming, apex, vacuous, jocund, pensive, sprightly, exhumed, coronation, grimoire, arboretum, sepulchre, temporal, acolyte, abdicate, multiplex, cohabitation, contraband, vinyl, psychedelic, platitude, placebo.

All words he sought to destroy--all words that made him seem genius.

Would is a matter of decision, could is a matter of ability--and should is a matter of morality. What he did not do was confuse these three. Quirky--he was--and what he lived by was to dream alone, achieve together--and in the perfect world he so seamlessly lived in, he would achieve nothing. Everything was granted to him. It made him think--from his perception, of course--oh, the grandeur of one singular one was never enough to showcase the true enormity of scale of truth. 

And here it was. He told Paris it one day.

“Everyone lives the same life. Family, friends, school, career, success or failure. Along the way, romance. It’s a formula for a person creature’s life. And it’s too much of one. I want to be the difference. I want to live a life no one else has.”

Said every single person creature. 

“What makes it inevitable is the state of your being. The husk your exponential and alien consciousness has chosen as a host in this before-life.” Paris would blink, as always (he noticed she never stopped, but had intervals in between. In fact, he noticed that for everyone). “But if you are to do what you suggest, you need to start as soon as possible--literally. The birth is a start--your exceptionalism is a matter that must be addressed at the beginning of the entrance into this rock-ball. You must’t worry.”

“And so, if I shall--and if the existence of reincarnation is a profound reality--then this is what I will do. A manual end.”

She would have brief outbursts of loud sound--which would express comical relief, he interpreted. “It takes a lot of courage to take your own life. You can do a lot with that courage rather than kill yourself.”

How he would conquer fatigue at a magnitude equal to the ability of living--a mystery to him--but Paris told him of their once destined destination--Destiny’s Destination, the calling of its name went--the proposal at which you’d say it to address and acknowledge its existence. It consisted of a dented grass hill--a suspended nice day--and a presumed sunlight-filled, entrapping, enveloping, luminescent repertoire of in-between green and violet sky. And along were those breezes, oh those heavenly breezes, that skid on the dreariness and and skipped on the sneezes. 

The contrapuntal rigour, fundamental model, counterpoint--he would be a fervent, indubitably--but the dismal and abysmal tastes of the egregious--it was infuriating. It left him disheveled and riveted--shivering and limited--spirited and definitive. 

But those snarky pests with their undervalues. Their requiem would receive no mercy--without albedo--and the inertia of doubt.

Although he knew--the yearnings of condescending wake-up-juice drinkers--who were their own terms of selfish--which was equidistant to zero. A line is drawn through the centre of the circle, so that it is perpendicular to the chord. Such a powerful and wonderful. 

“Are you as bored as I am? Am I as bored as you are?”

When he was forty, Paris would have no answer in his crisis of seven dog years. She never did--she never had one of her own--at least not yet. His began long ago--and it did due to the boredom of the one-above-all who did not know what keys to hit anymore. A block? Perhaps not, but either one so was an optional validation; a validating option. 

And on head to know why Paris was so busy--she was busy mattering her sole existence (at the moment) in matters of no matter--as if she was matter that mattered. The process of purchasing food to eat later--the process of paying funds that would go to the person creatures that made the roads they situated their boxes with wheels on. And used opposite to seldom--quite much of that, as well. Moving on: caring for the most important and somewhat least important person creatures in their lives. Ah, yes, he would often forget about the legitimate actuality of his offspring. His hesitance in admitting that he took pride in them sprouted from his basis of loneliness in the past--it was an unbreakable yet that would be a lie a breakable system--yet he knew it wasn’t a lie--yet he did. Yet it wasn’t--yet it was. And he knew that, even though he didn’t--but he did. But after all the factual instances where a mother like Paris would be needed, it escalated his uselessness. She would not care about true matters of consequence such as outer space because in the present what held the most importance gratifyingly in their midst was what they were to ingest tonight--into their person-fuel chambers to digest later for excretion that he knew would inevitably come then.

Ah, the sea monster would be back then. Fuelled by his anthem, as always. The hauntings of his past were his terrorism in his perspective. 

If he were to be a lucid dreamer--then the guaranteed benefits of being one would have to exceed his usual sentience force pros. What he experienced every day--it would have to be mundane in comparison to have it hold absolute value. 

But terrorism--absolutism enemy--and the yielding of the advancement of his granger was a susceptible alignment that was revitalized by his final fall. 

Her motherhood, his fatherhood--berated by the sole fact of his humanity--his need to procreate. He wished he hadn’t had it--yearning for a time where what was at the top his mind was not what they were to consume that night.

Strange--what really was, in the opinion of he--was that sometimes, when you wake from a nap, you do not know where you are--or rather when you are. You are unaware of the events concurrently in action--of what is happening. You are a sole existence in a sea drop of reality. It is not until you ask a person, or check the time, that you are reconnected to the reality you once knew. 

Overthinking--a passage he did not not unlike. But passive terraces on the verandas were his telegraphs. He shall shout his messages at their very rightful, sightly heights. Yet, he would not be the grandmaster of the reason he hated himself. It was Paris.

There was a time when she had done the deed too much--all the time, supposedly--but she would not agree. An ant--dead--stepped on. And it was as if the weather coursed in the favour of stupidity and ridicule--a taunting satire of what could be in the race of the person creatures. She had cried for minutes, and her feeling of the need to raise a funeral was too great. Rain fell--and the ant wouldn’t care in life or in death--yet she did it. 

And it was because she did it that he knew she was different. He liked that. 

Her thought process was similar in ridicule as well. Learned through the painfulness was the single thought of a child--a child, cold and tired, in the rain. A mother--waiting for her child, waiting for the child to come home. Waiting--and waiting. A promise to return home by supper with a gesture of affection to the cheek in her current memory banks. Then--forever passes. Because the child is dead. 

So she would never step on an ant again. Because of thoughts such as those. 

They plagued her mind with grief and regret--and a matter so small could be complained about--they can suggest an emptiness to her soul--a weakness in her non-compliant yet ever forgiving blood pump--a flaw in her ness. Yet she was perfect in his optical sensors--absolutely perfect--in fact, a step closer to absolutism. Tiniest--the step would definitely be--although a step nonetheless--perhaps, ever the less, for the step was still grandly minuscule, infinitesimal--a singularity of bashfulness. Yet. Still. Perfect. 

Significance was a major problem--in the hesitation of his feral instinct was the blameful aggression of him who pattered, patcher.

Things--all things--there were some he knew and some he didn’t--and for the some he knew they were certain.

“The world is so chaotic. Depressing. Life moves on, impermanence is permanent. Change is inevitable. Old friends lose connections by planes and moves and other schools and work. Childhood friendships die. Relationships end. On a bus ride with sunlight flashing through the canopies of trees. Cars go by with every driver with a different destination. People and connections constantly change. People change. People die. People grow up. When all of this happens, with change everywhere, nothing is permanent and it is depressing. Perspectives of everyone are different.”

Paris said that--and he wished he had. It was strange--the most normally formal and formally normal thing he had heard in a long time. Last time he had heard such a sentence of ordinary prose? Times of eld--old enough to be nearly erased from the memory banks of his thinking organ. 

True--it was--and the internal philosophy was a sea monster that devoured him inside out and or or outside in. 

“All these people wanting their mothers and fathers back. Such uselessness--ridicule. Because here’s the simple truth. You don’t need a father. You don’t need a mother. You can recover. And that’s what matters most.”

Of course, that was true--most things Paris said were true. 

The reason for his activation of the operation not inviting his parents to wedding--which ultimately failed by his comrade in sentience force--? It was all misguided--not all, in fact, none. He liked to believe in whatever he wanted--yet he knew it was wrong--yet he knew it wasn’t. Yet he knew it was. 

Yet he knew it wasn’t.

Yet, he knew it was. The reason for this unforgiving treatment to his birth-givers? His belief in an unorthodoxy pretence. Diminished were the discriminants--and polished were his senses of the whom with no carbohydrates--in favour of the enlightened. There was just a feeling--vibe--possible internal possibility--that a mere some people had. That he knew they were a sort of higher level of intelligence and therefore at a higher state of enlightenment--their humour would match his--their complete understandings of situations would be conceivable to them easily--and oh, of course--their stoic attitudes allowed them to barely be hurt--it allowed them to laugh at everything. Depression--a nonexistence for them. Them was he; he was them.

They were real. At least--not all the time, but mostly--and, if not, at the least, they knew how to get real. While others drowned in pity and sorrow at their misunderstood sentience forces, wallowing in the willowing wallows of the willows, willowing in the wallows of the wallowing willows that wallowed willingly. Aye, a nuisance it was sometimes to explain things--especially the latter of his theory--the unenlightened who needed extra explanation to their feeble thinking organs with (the capacity) (no capacity) to even do its career, in a proper fashion. 

A yes or no question--asked to him. His answer would be delightful to his hearing organs, but he supposed not so much to others. It would be yes/no, or no/yes, so yes/no/no/yes. This meant them at the same exact time, no planck instants in between which would inevitably be there during speech (ah, such flawed and susceptible to failure speech!) and it was because of his known terminal, inescapable, effectually potent and potentially effectual, prominent condition of indecisiveness. Stabled and forged by the fury of the heavens--heavens equaling his ness--and heavens being equidistant to the walls of his thinking organ bone protector case, effectively outlining through fact and especially logic the position of his ness to those who needed to know. 

His case was that he lived and did not live at the same time. Like a certain cat. 

“Offspring, let me tell you a story.”

His male and two females--the ones of his genes and chromosomes--placed their rear bottoms onto the rock-ball surface with their built-in walking implements in the formation implying that of the letter ex, pronounced in a way like that. Listening attentively--it would not matter anyway--this was as much for him than them.

“There was once a person with intense curiosity--so much that he manually ended himself in an outcry of his expression of depression. This was since he whom cried was a cryer at the fact that the secrets of the universe would forever be hidden from him, kept, and the state of being left out would be his guttural, intensely painful feeling. A condemnation of eternal unknowingness. The definition of sentience force, of what makes things truly living--including a plethora of other significant universal questions--are there others with the mysterious sentience force out there, not only here--was an age of enlightenment possible--and the nature of reality? A crosswalk of impossibilities. Non-fictional fiction. He, so solely knew--with the excessive amount of dedication--these facts. And he, so boldly threw--without any therapeutical medication--his back. At a rope: looped harness, with the powerfully-invoking aid of a sitting instrument. The finale.”

Their faces were not rich with a singular emotion--as expected. Wait--perhaps he meant that as if he expected it? Or did he mean it that he expected otherwise, he expected a multitude of emotions--a rainbow of them?

Drew that pitiful, ragged, itchy, maniacal, scumbag! Curse to all those that follow that name!

They approved--politely--and then they split separately in a countable number of directions. Non-acknowledgement of the story’s moral--a clear sign. But a clear sign for what? That they did not understand, of course! Yes--true, it had to be. An omen that their level of ness would never surpass the level of his dear, sweet Paris. All the well--they at least could understand superficially, as she did--it would be better than not being able to create the supernatural thoughts and not be able to understand at all, of course, of course. He would not complain--it was a legendary sin to do so, a legacy-claiming fate in the hands of the monster at the end of that path. 

But the strange feelings--they soothed in, wandering--haunting. Death-defying daunting. In the flawless world he so perfectly lived in came the notion of opposite to freedom. To live a real life--how was he to? And in the prominent loneliness of his naivety was the burning desire to reach absolutism ever more.

He was tired of stepping out of the hydro-cleaning-chamber, speeding up the process of evaporation with a handy semi-solid tool, and seeing himself in the light-reflector every earth-spin.

For what he saw--oh, it was eerie. What he saw was a person creature.

Just that--nothing more, nothing less, for that matter. Bothered him--this was it: he saw scars and marks that deemed him lower than perfection. He did not want to be in this state. He wanted to be in a state of absolute freedom and flawlessness, where all he had to focus on were his thoughts--therefore, what he thunk. He did not want to worry about a runny nose--he did not want to worry about an itchy skin patch--he did not want to worry about a tingling life-juice dispenser that begged for attention--enough so for others, that it so heavily took control of their lives. No, he hated a state such as so--he would never forgive whom was so responsible for his surreal existence. 

In fact, that was a reason for his failure of invitation to his birth-giver for his once-in-a-lifetime ceremony. Paris was skeptical and concerned, thinking that the proper (perhaps, one would say normal was a better way to explain it) system of the ceremony would be blemished. But was she one to care? In a business she knew herself was failing to make a revenue? And--the cold hands and the loud sounds--they were not involved either, no. He liked to think they were--but they weren’t, and he hated that. 

He hated that he hated that. And then he hated that he hated that he hated that. 

“And I hate that you hate that you hate that you hate that,” Paris would chime. He would hate her for that, too.

“What symbolizes a comedy?”

“A lack of tragedy, I suppose. But then you are to answer the vice versa, for which I am to reply the vice versa as well.”

“And if you knew so, why did you ever answer the first question?”

“That is a good point. I suppose it is my basic instinct--I cannot help being a person creature--just as much as you hate being one yourself.”

There’s a way to be so teenager-y, and it was validly a great way. With their ear-listeners (machines) and their mobiles and their pieces of clothing involving a pull-over on their heads. With terms that describe their angst--and a self-diagnosed melancholy. Hurrah, it was so ugly--in everyone’s eyes, not just his--oh no! He was experiencing an aspect of normality!--for person creatures with his number of earth-sun revolvings, of course. He did not want this opinion--it was one of normalcy, yes. Ordinary, typical, regular, average, normal--it all suited him best if he did not follow as such--he was too much of a stoic esotericism fellow. But he supposed at this stage of sentience force, it was certainly inevitable for the comings of these types of views. They were enriching, at the least--but a type of unorthodoxy prophecy, not enlightening, rather the opposite--seeing things the way they were only and merely, when they could be so much more. 

With the migraine in his head, the anthem that pounded on his thinking organ protection case made of bone, he did not have a chain, a link--to attach to, of course--excepting the minimalistic objects that he had soulfully sold his solely soiled retchings to. Exemplifying Paris and her offspring--wait, it was his offspring as well, was it? He did not know--he did not understand--rather, he refused to understand because if he chose to he would have a decency to become normal. What he did not want to know was how the society of living in a society worked--he wanted to know the beats and lyrics to his anthem--he wanted to find the ness that produced a wanting for absolutism. 

And perhaps he would never reach it, but oh well--perhaps Paris’s offspring were not his as well--oh, but they were. That gave him hope--two utterly disconnected things that matched together in a way that no one knew, only governed by him and decided by him. Pathetic, an opposite-to-student would once say. 

The reason--and he so surely knew--old people’s thoughts are only eat, shower, sleep; they don’t understand anything else because what’s taken over the capacity in their thinking organs are what they did almost every single day in life. From the pointless repetition, it’s all they remember. Why would they bother remembering the Pythagorean Theorem--or the exact clock-tick and sum of latitude and longitude of the dissolution of the snow soviets. No, they’d rather focus on themselves--not selfish at all, in fact, they hadn’t focused on their personal developments in their entire sentience forces at all--it’s about time. They need to understand the concurrences of theirs, not someone else’s. Therefore, all they did every day was think--formalize concepts in their minds that they desire. Their only links to the external world were their fuels and cleanings. 

This was perhaps--and he knew this was truthfully true (he believed in anything he wanted)--that them being senile involved being a watch-less sentinel. A void that they stared at--they are lost in another rock-ball, he knew--he knew so surely--no one could argue with him, no one! Oh, not a single person at all. 

Be more careful, leaving bags, how can he if all his life he had known that he was safe and could? It was awfully true at scenarios that it could have been stolen--surely for sure. But what difference did it make caring? When he knew it was not going to be stolen anyway? And he knew that for certain! He lived in such a flawless wonderland--with no deservingness required for the reservation either. With such a simple occurrence with complex endings, he can never assume one was to happen--and he could play the innocence inside him, for he had never seen such a tragedy in his life--least not a truly tragic one--ever, meaning always, certain, concurring all the time. 

For all that basked in the glory of his wake, he would seldom find that he had the ability to feed them.

The problem--everyone thought, did--got affected by--the same. And it was so ravenously sure that what a manicure of events would find their way into a pitfall of dutifulness that did not want to do its duty--and zero parachutes were available. 

“Yes, I can,” he said.

“Can you see the future, Devan?” asked a woman. 

A silent reminiscence of a time that never existed--but since he believed it did, it did. Yet he knew it didn’t--yet he knew it did. 

But sentience force was art--without the sea monster or northern yaks. He saw pieces of nature being welded into art. Beautiful sunrises and white bedsheets, male counterpart connecting his eating-organ with female counterpart, a wake-up-juice drinker now promoting the latter two words of the phrase to his partner. The sunlight was blinding--now there would be healthy fuel for the next twenty-four hours, for the two counterparts and their little versions of themselves, as well. Except if they were like the man, and there would only be a singular one, fated to live a dangerous life alone, no companions at the blood stage. That was him--and the closest he had to experiencing any different was Paris. Perhaps Eliwin, and perhaps maybe even Cecil--pros at entertainment, but they held not as much value to him, and of course--who had taken care of him when he was little? Who had patched his mental wounds and comforted his sorrowful sorrows tied to age, change, and separation from all things rather and supposed joyful? Not his single birth-giver, no. It was her. It had always been her, and now, he could not believe it, that it would always continue to be her too. 

A continuity: next, the tiny people would bring their mini storages of fuel they would eat three times a double-clock-spin, absorbing knowledge into their thinking organs along with their acquaintances--that soon would be more than that, and after that stage, even further, until they would pair up into their clone sources--their birth-givers. They would replicate their lives--and they already had, too. 

All the connections--they would run rampant. When the offspring in the education centres would pair up, they would have their future laid out for them in a path--and what best--they would go through it together. Repeat. Far future: now it’s their offspring’s turn to do the same--a seeming forever of a lifetime in the education centre, finding a suitable pair mate, and the cycle repeats as if disregarding that it has already repeated.

For millennia.

Now, it wasn’t so much of an art piece anymore. Their past mistakes paved the way for the new coverage to overlap--underlying layers of colour would be run over by the new ones. And what would happen when the canvas became too thick? The colours started having no room to go over, or else it would start being three dimensional? The end as we know it? What would happen? He wanted to know so bad--and he would kill to find out. Literally--he went outside and stomped on an ant cruelly. He could hear the little cries of its children, sad they would never see their mother again--that’s alright. Paris will walk out the door and see it, then give it a sad death ceremony. Thou shalt not worry--he supposed.

Then the most sickening thought happened to him. What if she didn’t? As if, what if she never found out he did this? He began to panic--he hyperventilated--beads of body-water ran down his face-sides. He collapsed on the ground, breathing heavily. A time to die! What a relaxing grace. 

Huh? His being was lifted by tiny hands. 

“Mother, he needs help!” Dalia screamed at the top of her lungs. Did you know what he wanted to do at that moment? He wanted to reach for a knife and put it in her eating organ right now. 

“Ah, you won’t,” said Paris, already there. “Least, you only say things you will do. That’s all you do--say things. Keep talking. Talk is fine.”

From the theory of his offspring, they concluded a false assumption. That he was so angry at the conclusion of sentience force of his birth-giver, he went out the door to do the same to an ant’s. But that was not it at all--and it made him angry! He did not care at all that his birth-giver recently just passed! He did not care at all it was from a blood pump attack--the reason for it being that she thought she received no love from her single offspring anymore, after the nonexistent invitation to the single most important ceremony in his sentience force. He was ruthless--stoic, nothing bothered his soul. Now, his blood pump offensive was a reasoning for his birth-giver’s death--that is fine, he agreed. Now they will never believe that the ant’s death was because of pure rage after not finding out the solution to a thickening canvas of sentience force. 

But he had not gone to his birth-giver’s death ceremony either. All the wake-up-juice drinkers found him to be odd, as well as Paris, who knew as a fact that she was a non-abusive offspring guide. But that was exactly his preeminence--she was just a birth-giver--nothing else. Merely a bridge from the ceaseless void of nothingness, to existence, to reality--he did not have an obligation--and she did not have a right--for him to get close to her. That’s all--cold-blooded pursuit of absolutism was the main cause of his behaviour. And he knew Paris was another obstacle to that--but he supposed his humanity stopped him from dispatching her--he so wonderfully was connected, and this was a problem--he could not sever the connection, it was impossible. He would have to in order to fulfill his anthem of Ancient Knowingness and The Realness of Everything--or perhaps include her in it, which was impossible--but if he believed it wasn’t, then perhaps it wouldn’t be. 

Back to the protruding tangent-less art of sentience force: yes, he was a loner and he was afraid to be jealous because of it. 

His offspring would usually surround him and inquire about his health--the impact of being their birth-giver, a side-effect of them having involuntary and natural affection for him and his cause. That was a con--he agreed. 

He liked to believe his feelings were impeccable--that wasn’t the case, simply. He longed he didn’t long for something he already had--whom was Paris. What bothered him was he didn’t know why or where these came from--that he so suddenly wanted an out of his dull partner. He saw someone with more realism in perfection--but he knew it was a lie! But they would be walking down the street--and he would fantasize. But especially someone whom already knew, and experienced with--someone who also provided the attention he sought--the very same attention he wished he didn’t sought--and didn’t, yet did. Yet didn’t. Yet did. (Yet didn’t, yet did.)

It would rejuvenate worse when Paris showed no signs of the same feelings--she still was attentive in his explanations, still powerful in her listenings--and so believing in a faithful half to her being, that there were no rowdy suspicions. It felt amazing/bad. Once he began there would be no repair--he knew so, and he knew he had utter self-control and power. Even when one day he was pulled into the rooms of water and bathing by the necktie, and had a being--being, well, forceful--forcing upon the femininity of herself, hoping it was a valid toughness that would prove enough in his carnal desires. He said no, and walked away sway. There would be no way. He did not feel proud, no. In fact, he felt nothing at all. This philosophy--the one about truth and stories he could tell having no believers--was one where he knew he had minimal impact in it, and so no trying was needed. Nothing happened--and he continued on as if that. The woman too--oh, she was heavenly smart--as well as graciously glamorous to his seeing organs. Her in the vision of his optical sensors already gave pleasure. Delightful gratification was what a human wanted, although--not a god. She still raised the corners of her outer eating organ at him through the halls--no advances after that. It seemed the danger was clear. Or so, he thought--and he thought correctly. 

This integral aspect of his sentience force was one not viewed by anybody--except for any divine beings--and one that he so hopefully wished Paris saw--but knew she didn’t. Yet he believed she did, and as if that was true (it was now, since he believed it was) he liked to think his reward was a long, delightful time with her at the sleeping conductor.

And while there earlier, he dreamed of the encounter--not it itself, but the details, of course--he was just that way. The idea of having to deal with problems with no solutions--having one bathroom stall being dirty, and having to go use it. There was no choice, there was no solution. There was only the dealing of it. It was a disgust to his inner principles of verity--a law being that in his experience, everything had a mandatory responsibility to carry out the forthcoming fullness of his absolute utopia. 

It was difficult to take life in all at once--the everything-ness of the world was too obscure and epic--sublime in the ways of magnitude, a mind computer overload. The one who could calculate and anticipate every single fact and bit in the rock-ball would be the one above all--to do so was insane, a mad lad’s task, to understand every single atom in the universe all at once and predict its paths and movements. This delved into some complex theoretical objectifications--not suited for him, no. For even the most intelligent did not mean the most enlightened--although, he would agree, there was a relation--just not a definitive one, no. For even the greatest at mastering the tools of the thinking organ--such as himself, could argue more about things that mattered at not mattering over the intelligent potatoes--he was a non-potato, but a different one than the scientists. 

He couldn’t live a life of nothingness, laziness--of relaxation and absolute perfection and pleasure, unless born in the right place, time, and people. No, he had to work hard, and he found that unfair. Living normally was useless and everything is the same. Things were disallowed even if you wanted to do them, due to the power of leaders around the rock-ball, with no places of anarchy--no true and total freedom anywhere.

He had no disaster in his sentience force experience. He really was waiting for something truly tragic to happen. Sleeping in one of those wheeled vehicles is trust that there won’t be a crash that will kill him--trust in fate, trust in the rock-ball external elements--and trust in the driver. But with all his seemingly excessive peace, all it would take was at any random given moment, a tragic event. Ruined--he would be so, and it would only take one. At any time. He did not know if there would even be a time, and if there will be, then when it would be. He merely knew it was possible--that there was a chance--and that was saddening for him, yes. Truly saddening, for the entirety of his sentience force he knew he could die--any moment, by any way, by all the outside factors that could not be calculated by a quantum computing device--there was no way of telling by an analyze chance what could end his sentience force at the moment--no predictions of atom movements, no bias of direction of person creature dangers. He was as vulnerable as invulnerable--and as invulnerable as vulnerable. 

Simply--he did not know, and it was a virtuality to ever know, in fact. There was enough of the not enough--and yielding his presence in his sole existence was the very tiny string that held him from the verge of animation and nonexistence. 

What he did know where the basic things. He knew that if he survived that day, he would come home to see Paris, Cecil, Dalia, and Violet. And then he would have a virtual inevitability of being safe (still basking in that possible uncertainty)--until the next day, when all would tediously and repetitively be repeated and he would have to survive that day as well. All unfair, but he supposed--this was the same for everyone--everyone else had it unfair, so it was fair. 

A case that could drive any person creature mad was the fragility of sentience force itself. A soul--suspended in an endless void--and one tiny breeze would send the sea monster after it in the pool of darkness. Simply any small thing was a tragic-causer. If one of his inner cells made a mistake in mutation--he was dead. He would lose his head coverings, and would require amputation to survive, unless an even more vital organ that disallowed even that to happen--no, he would be dead for sure. What made him throw a fit or rage and absolute fury--leaving nothing in the trail of his wrath--was that it was a feature that was uncontrollable. He had no decision in the court--his vote held no value to the thousands--no, millions of other votes, who all did so as if they seemingly did not care about him.

“What have you done, Cosmos?” they would say when they saw the room of living--in a mess. “Won’t mother be angry?”

“Let her be, then. This is my doing--but I am part of the collective household, and you shall do my suffering--you shall clean, I shall not, which is a destined, preordained and hallowed manifesto in which I solely represent by.”

They three of them would not follow, rebellious. He liked it that way--for he did not mean a single word. He also liked them to think he was insane--and why? Because he was--by embracing his sanity, he produced insanity--and that was a formula he believed everyone lived by--that it could be sparked by an equation, just as he had previously done. 

Paris said no word when she saw the mess--and together they cleaned it. In fact, she said no word at all, and at the sleep conductor, she turned the other direction--that was fine with him--as if that was a detail that bothered him--bah! And so what if it did? Would that matter in the existence of the universe? That he cared?--which he didn’t, of course--but would that matter to anything else--any other atoms that were not a part of his or Paris’s body? And--why were there tear-falls? Why were there sobs? The sobs of the dead, who wandered in his thinking organ wishing for a grievance of epic proportions that wanted nothing as he was awake to do with him but he had nosiness that would raise their--AH. 

“Is there something out of order?” Those could have been the first words spoken to him that day. Or was it the ones about passing the the brush for tooth, or the salt?

“What are you thinking about? I have been speaking to you all day. But the din of that anthem of yours has been such a bothersome trouble for you to notice at all. What a pity.”

This was an edge--his failed continuation of his birth-giver, the fact he did not show any affection for her when he should have, and she had done so to him. His little versions of himself misunderstanding him as a potato. The wake-up-juice drinkers and the pal-callers with their cold hands and loud noises. The pain of a lifetime of hearing his anthem. All of it together--forming a climax in which he bore no solution to any of it, therefore leading to him wailing in grief and misery--and he wanted to wail all night. But also not, for the customs in the rock-ball he lived in--which he did not invent, agree with, or not hated--disallowed him to because the perception of a man with water beads was so unsatisfying--dissatisfying--acknowledgeable in structured evidence of failure of something--yet he did not fail at anything but at himself. His personal development, which he wanted to start now but knew like every other person creature, would have to do it when aged with no physical and mental abilities, capabilities.

“It is okay,” said Paris. Her warm (realistically cold, but he believed otherwise, and therefore that became truth) arms around him was all he needed to understand that a sentience force in which one encountered no problems was not even an example of absolutism. In fact, to achieve his state of absoluteness was to have an example of everything--everything possible that was possible, and a possibility. 

“I have lived decades to be with you, and so it is my career now. Through the wandering ages of our past and the tiring, titanic and volcanic eruptions that I so heavily guided you through, what difference does it make now? You will be an example of fineness--a success story that has no success in it. And I will be your future. You will quake in the artistic presence of my entity--you will calm the storm that your anthem-singing serpent so heavily wanders in. And you will take your excalibur and send it straight through its smelling organ--it will wail and scream, just as you had, in a state of fury--also just as you had. And this time, it will not have anyone to clean its mess in the room of living--do you know why? That is the difference between you and the sea monster--it is alone. You are not.”

“And what if that is true, but when I watch, it does not feel true?” He quivered--and this was an innate reaction to coldness, he perceived--he remembered the many times Paris had done the same and he would have to fix that with a coat offering. “Children. Play, grow up, become adults as I watched as how I had. All the while as an aging adult grieving for the death of my birth-giver--while also not, mind you--birth of grandchildren in the far future. The repeating cycle with no end, and also no point. What must I do to reach the state I want so badly? Will I have to give you up, abandon the cycle of regularity? Must I go on a quest of self-discovery, perhaps in the snowcapped mountains, to reunite with my oh-so-loyal yaks in the north? The ones who will follow me to reach absolutism? Dying for my cause? If I must, I must. For who can focus in an environment they were born in? They must gain the feeling of adventure to satisfy their needs of the abstract and rare artifact that the potatoes call fun. Do you know? They drink their wake-up-juice and call each other pal. They will not bother finding their yaks in the north--the paradise that they sought was given to them falsely already--it is not their real one, though they seem to think so. It is pathetic--disgusting!”

“Oh, so that may also be true. But what is true? A decision to only be made by person creatures, regardless of actual, divine truth. And so you must choose a path of no paths--one that will divide you to the point of unification, and unify you to the point of division. This is the calling that you must aggravate in order to fulfill your so-called destiny. And to do so, if it must take the finding of your yaks in the north, then so be it. We must go.”

In the morning, the offspring cheered.

“I will apply my knowledge of packing, now,” said Cecil. 

“I will be excited for this future event, an event of relaxation and rest from normal activities in our boring sentient lives,” said Dalia. 

And tiny, sweet Violet said, “Aha. We are such small descendants right now--progeny, successors. Scions with the actions of youngsters. The same nonetheless, but yet different.”

A plane would be their preferred option of travel--and the application of his past thoughts--this was the time now. One tiny dent in the craft could be the last they experience, remember--and that small detail, backed up and provided with a majestic chance of uncertainty, was a driving factor in the belief of his inevitable doom--his death in this time. This tininess along with a hugeness was an aspect of mortality, for it could be the sole decider of their subliminal fate. If this was to go well--so be it. If this was not to go well--also so be it. This was the philosophy of every plane traveler. They bet their sentience forces on it--for the possibility that everything does go well and they reach their destination--another one that did not mean absolutism, and he wondered why they did not sought it as much as he did. 

The entire path in the air--in fact--he pondered at the absolute disinterest in reaching a state of absolute enlightenment of the potatoes. What good is it to visit relatives, and produce more of your own with another one (with pleasure factors involved), if that was all you could do? If that was all that mattered?--which, it was not all that mattered, he knew. He knew what mattered most--and it wasn’t even Ancient Knowingness of The Realness of Everything, or the Laws of The Universe, no. It was, in fact, the absolutism of his inner ness--of every person creatures’ inner ness. The one that called them to have a purpose--rather than being a hunk of husk that roamed the property of divine beings freely, only basking themselves in carnal pleasure. The incorporeality of such a grand existence of something beyond their feeble thinking organs was too much for them--to much of a possibility that it did not matter to them--and to him, they were considered to him something bad--to him, yes. They were examples of failure at being a true person creature. Rubbing their life-juice dispensers all day--egad! He shalt not worry about things that never concerned him at all--for it was a weakness that he knew did not resolve itself in him--he was not a valid host for such a deadly virus. This was good--and he liked that he was immune. It was another step to his ness. 

But trueness, or, true ness, was something without an expiry date--for the yearning was all one needed to continue in the voyage of achieving it. And although not a single person in the entire rock-ball ever did, he knew it was possible. Why? Because people such as him existed, such as Cecily. And because he and her both believed it to be possible, which made it possible--they shared that power, of course. Of alternating truth by the power of belief. And he knew that from the time when they both discussed and conversed about a false reality in which they were to be together, and be in the same sleep conductor forever--which he thought had happened, but he supposed his imagination was so powerful it told lies--which were not lies, merely visions of alternate realities--which was the same exact power they discussed in the sleep conductor through the pleasure they received from each other. (Which would go down the drain as waste later, for it would end up as a remnant of a past he would never go back to. No, what was more important were things such as the personal development he had been thinking lately about, for that was grand, legendary, and everlasting--forever. Eternal.)

He wished he could go back to those days of naivety and innocence--but now, he was advancing. He was aware. He was AWARE. 

Dismantling his think organ relapses, the craft landed. This was the time when what could happen was either a yes or no, and what did happen was a no. But in that split-second, it was yes and no. And he believed that since it was half yes, then it was a failure. 

But the first thing he did was not run to the snowcapped mountain range to find his yaks, no. They had priorities--priorities to his offspring and their birth-giver, of course--not priorities to him. And Paris scolded him that checking in was a valuable initial step, because if he was to go alone in the frigid icy winds, he would lose his sentience force in a slow descent into unconsciousness. The yaks--they were loyal, and they would wait for him anyway--he knew so, that was a fact. They would never leave into the journey to absolutism without him. And Paris was the one who told him that, just now, and he trusted Paris, so there was that as well. 

He knew that in the future, his accounts would be read and they would be forgotten. Why? Because boredom was the sole factor that would force the person creatures to stop their reading, therefore turning them away in the direction of realizing the true value in the words they chose to read. As if the accounts would have any value anyway--who said they would? They could all be a mistake, he presumed. A false belief of value--yet, his beliefs were never false, according to that law--and so it would have value. But no one would ever understand--perhaps also the reason being that his accounts would be too hard to understand anyway, only able to be assessed by people with anthems such as him and Cecily, only by the truly esoteric. The potatoes would never read his accounts--even if forced by a learning-conductor person creature, and also even if pressured by a ticking time-clock that decided their marks, that decided their fate in acceptance into higher-level education centres, which decided their career, which decided if they would make enough to survive, which would decide the fate of their sentience force in the future, a long process that determined life or death, truly a grand masterpiece example of why this was a disguised dystopia without any absolutism, or freedom. If descendants did not choose to understand his accounts, or if they really just couldn’t--hmm. He could be deciding lives here. Perhaps he should talk easier--in an easier way to perceive. 

No. He was a cold-blooded killer. Ruthless, stoic. No pathos was needed and none was needed to describe him either, for his uncomplaining compliance with everything--ever--was a valuable asset in his arsenal. 

But ennui would leave him in a joyless state in which advancement was impossible--progress would be called stillness, and the management of his clock-ticks would be so heavily influenced by the distractions of his era that in the age of vast conquest, one simply did not anymore, and delved themselves in a booming isolatopia of engineered ennui-killers. 

Predictability--and probability--more importantly the latter, was the sole deciding factor of sentience force and opposite to sentience force. For each and every decision--consequences, and sometime devastatingly and vastly deadly, imminent, prominent, sucking his soul in an endless void aimed by a succubus, and no escape for as long as he owned his sentience force and consciousness. 

If he took a step, he would never experience the infinite number of universes where he took the step somewhere else, or maybe did not take the step at all, and all the following branches of existence that could send him into--and this allowed him to enter a state of depression in which the single ruler of his empire was ennui. For, when one saw what could happen, one would delve in the dissatisfaction of what did happen. That was fact, that was truth, that was inarguable. If he were to take his sentience force and suspend it on a stranded piece of string, then all before his eyes he would see the pathways of possibilities that would lead to separate futures. 

If he were to be captured by terrorists who liked to play games with chances and take chances in games, they would reason that for himself to be spared a gruesome death, they would activate three dice that would all have to roll sixes in order for his goal to be met. The first one--was inevitably already a small chance, and he could not bear to find out the outcome--not six. The axe swung above his head and the last thing he heard was it coming down. 

However, it rolled six. He was alive, for now. They would roll again. This time--he was unfortunate. The axe swung above his head and the last thing he heard was it coming down.

But, however, he was insane in probability. It was another six. The last roll would decide his fate, which had not given up on him yet--until now, when it rolled a number that was not a six. The axe swung above his head and the last thing he heard was it coming down.

Yes, but actually no. Forever, once again, in a unique universe--it had rolled six. He would live. He would grow up. He would prosper. 

Time passed by. He grew into a man with a family--his grandchildren existed because he was there to monitor their existence--seeing something made it real, and when there was no person creature to see something, that meant it didn’t exist. 

He gained a formidable dwelling--he gained a valiant fortune--he amassed an ordinary living of an ordinary person creature. He was there when his birth-giver died, and the tears were shed--he was there when his grandchild was born, and tears were shed. He viewed all the days of birth, the candles and the singing, the smiles and the kisses, the bells and the sleds, the views and the wonders, the goodnights and the good mornings, the sunrises and the sunsets, the hellos and the goodbyes, the beginnings and the endings, the goals and the aspirations, the successes and the failures, the joys and the miseries, the achievements and the accomplishments, the thank you’s and the I love you’s, the sunshines and the thunderstorms, the rain and the rainbows, and the lives and the deaths of all who were incorporated in his sentience force and whose existence mattered to him simply because they were in his existence. 

All because that day he lived, and fate was good to him.

Then he realized--with a vast and epically gigantic amount of sorrowful contempt, that this all would have never been experienced if those three dice did not roll six--and forever would he diminish in a realm of void and nothingness, eternally cursed to experience absolute emptiness. Or, rather, in other planes of existence, other forms of dimensions, those three times where the die did not roll six created separate versions of himself, versions in which did not live to see the wonders that would befall and beseech them in the long future. No, instead, the possibilities of what could have happened where demolished, eviscerated, gone from existence, all sixty years of it or so, all because of three white cubes laced with black dots that determined his fate. This was how the rock-ball he lived in worked. Butterflies and snowballs governed the way fate handled business. 

One more thing--that he realized--that life and existence truly was art and it shall not be ruined. 

“I am to kill those terrorists,” he said. “Who impeach my validity to be free, of freedom, and impersonate my alias as a guardian of this rock-ball chimpanzee’s sentience force with extreme pain to my mother Fate.”

“You must calm down,” said Paris. “Remember it was I whom nested and nurtured you when you were sick. In those dark days all that fell was rain, along with your shattered soul.”

It would not matter, for the entity that he sold his soul to was churning in its wake, the entity that sung the anthem, the sea monster that ate his northern yaks, the one that he had ignored his entire sentience force, but now could not. And he had sworn that he would never do such a thing again, but here he was, ready. With so many dangers in the modern rock-ball, it was easy to find one that would suit his instinctual needs. 

But it was too slow--too late. For when the savage engine hummed and the chugging of steam smelt near, his hero was there to save him again, out of the way he was pushed--and a blow to his mentality was punctured, for when Paris had knocked him to the ground a feeling of absolute misery and dread washed over him, the tsunami so enormous that he could not take it anymore--he wanted to strike her, so hard, that she would have her organs unable to support her wounds.

But he was sincerely sorry--not sorry for the thought, but rather sorry that the thought was not real. It would never be real, for Paris was Paris. 

“I am the thin barrier between you and the endless void,” she said, explaining that she was the resistance that blocked him from his wanted salvation. “Your chaos drove you--I cannot blame such.”

He supposed that his belief in a stoic state was all a lie--for the eye-droplets that naturally came during sadness came--and the instinctual action of wanting another person creature’s embrace went into motion--she was there already, clothes dirty from the railroad stones, both of them kneeling on the ground, per se--they can be washed, though. They can always be washed. By the same tsunami that fuelled his anger. 

“I have you,” said Paris. “Lifelong is a strong term, and when one says it, it carries an eternal meaning. But if this is the term I must apply to actively stop you from your misguided sense and view of salvation, so be it--lifelong it is. How can I argue? A burden such as yours is carried only by you, and such unfairness is especially present.”

Such jargon jargon--if anything would be endless, that would be it. 

Finally, they were able to see the yaks. If he were to consider them pieces of majestic art--that was what it would be seen as, at least by one person. And with the drive to make every other person creature on the rock-ball suspended in a hanging string in the cosmos agree, they would agree, for his opinion in such a grand belief would have enough fuel to for the causation of mass hysteria of faith--that the yaks, in all their rational glory, were nothing less than majestic pieces of art. 

In truth--they were simply there, existing--in fact, they were short of anything majestic. They were plain yaks, chewing grasses and exerting digestive gases. They were on his same plane of existence--yet, so inglorious. So anticlimactic, so passionate-less. Then why had he seen them such heavenly creatures that would ride with him till the edge of dawn? Till the finality of time? Why did he see them as loyal servants that would feast on his anthem-singing sea monster? Perhaps they were truthfully not all that great, and he was delusional. Perhaps, even, he had known this all along, but inside with faith he disbelieved every bit of it--and this led to a massive loss of satisfaction in the end.

Or maybe, they were perhaps the destined saviours he had imagined? Was he wrong? How could he have been, for he had so carefully planned this? His entire sentience force had led up to this moment which could not have meant nothing--his every waking decision was a causal aspect of this journey. Yet so prestigious. And for that, he believed--or liked to believe--that this step in the staircase was necessary, certainly there for a reason, and unforgiving to those who decided it was not. 

And the offspring did not mind seeing them--they were clueless to the aspects of his ness. They took a glance and gained enough boredom to vocalize their need to move onwards, elsewhere--the tourist group is moving on, they would say. But they never said--but the yaks are here! I will not move on. 

Did they not understand? Did they not have the knowledge of just how compellingly tiny they were? How their interaction in feeding these yaks held so much more potential than the approximate entirety of the universe? How in the infinite expansion of spacetime they were only sentient for a possible billionth of the star-filled universe’s lifetime, and also in that lifetime they would have to spend on the rock-ball they would be so exquisitely insignificant to the rest of the star-filled void that perhaps their existence would have no place in the path link chain to the descendants of the cosmos? 

No, that wasn’t true, for the tiniest details--the tiniest microorganisms--were important in creating the biomass. Without one, it could be easily replaced--but the cost would be to find another replacement--and what good is that if the original is enough? At what point does it mean one is of enough uselessness by the factor of the exponential number it is replaced by?

And Dalia would inquire of her father about him daydreaming again, and he would ease her eerie emotion with a pleasing answer. But such delicacy required more than just that--for how this so-called affection worked was that honest truth must be spoken with absolute clarity--and such a redundant phrase cannot be called redundant, for the justification of the intense double-positive is mandatory to explain just how much importance such a phrase held. 

In her lightness--holding a bear of teddy--and there was a reason she did not feel its weight, he realized--there was, in fact, a reason she did not get bothered by carrying it around all day. It was because she loved it, and he had learned that this was how this so-called affection worked.

Analogy-wise, he was Paris’s bear filled with stuffing, and the universe was his bear filled with stuffing. 

Alright, onwards, he supposed, toward the next exhibit. 

A break of chapters--cued. Marching on. Sites--treasures--transformative landscapes. They all held worth and value yet did so little--in fact, did nothing at all. Diamond--sell it, gain. Person creature--sell it, it appreciates until it does grand wonders for the rock-ball, so much that the value had exponentially raised to a magnitude that was unimaginable.

He wished stars would not die--yet they did. Yet they didn’t. Yet, he knew they did. Yet he knew they didn’t. Such conflict in his thinking-organ was due to the belief that he could have any belief. In fact, it was this same belief that caused him to have the belief that he could have any belief. This contradictoriness, paradoxical statement, allowed him to always trust an instinct instilled to him at birth--this instinct that was driven by the very same anthem that he hated, wanted to murder, and drove him to the edge of existence itself.

If the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog, then the lazy dog went under the quick brown fox--a thought that he had thought during the typing of his typing. Such a statement was false--yet unable to be proved why. How could that be? 

Time-lapse of the far future--so insignificant person creature sentience force is, meaningless, meanwhile the cosmos is eternal, timeless, and the clock-ticks are at a seemingly infinite number, numbering in the trillions of years when we only live a few dozen--saddening, nonetheless. With the tiny window of life and the possibility of existence--such small chances--and such a small window of time in the universe--it was impossible not to feel the entirely human emotion of depression--that is, if you were a person creature. But to everything else, even other living things--they never held the capacity to analyze this thoroughly, therefore never having the capability to shed tears along with us. No, they continued on in an emotionless state, carrying out the duties of grandmaster entropy, whose master plan was to wipe out all energy-inequalities. This would surely mean the end of everything. 

“Let us move on,” said little Violet, tugging on the man’s sleeve. This was a sign of intense boredom, he interpreted. 

“What if we will never get to see the yaks once more?”

And as a revelation came across the girl’s face, with great severity, she understood--perhaps because she was the offspring who carried the same genes necessary to understand, but yet still not born with an anthem--she began to sob dreadfully, quietly instead of commotion-arousing, and such tiny whimpers drew no attention yet a birth-giver could still hear her own child from light years away.

“What is wrong?” said Paris, who had to come back--the group moving on ahead, they were behind, of course, but the man did not care--he would stay by his faithful yaks till the end--and so be it if his demise would occur within the decades he would spend here. 

“Daddy said that we would never see the yaks again,” she said. She did not call him Cosmos. Ah, yes, the forgetfulness of a child during hardships. “And that makes me tearful--a handful of yaks, living the rest of their lives, seemingly important to people in the moment that they see them on the white-capped hills, but then so insignificant once they move on their vacation--we might as well treat our time here on the rock-ball as vacations then!”

“Calm, dear. Why must you worry about a handful of yaks?”

“Because daddy said so.” She wiped a liquid droplet off her face-side. “They are yaks, not a rock or a twig. They breathe like us and they have friendships like us and they feel sad when their birth-givers die like us and they are like us because they are living. They chew their grasses all day--and they sleep at night--and we view them as yaks. That’s all that they are to us--yaks.”

“Why must you overcomplicate such simple creatures?” She would pierce her gaze at her beloved--and also wonder at the atrocity-filled nightmare he had induced on the tiny one. 

“Why must we not?” 

And when Paris failed to answer her simple question, she retired from trying. “Let us move on from this place--you as well, beloved.”

Perhaps it was time to move on--he could not stay there for an eternal amount of time. Paris knew best about living in reality--and he merely followed her directions at the expense of his divine cluelessness at it. So, he decided--a wise decision it would be as well--if he took her motivations of her upcoming agenda as his own. Perhaps that meant best. 

If he was to permit insubordination of the unorthodox ways of the potatoes, then he would indefinitely be jealous at how easily they conquered the thoughts they had about life while he showed anything other than indifference. It was because of this ease that he had theorized if they had any thoughts about life at all--perhaps so, and perhaps they were more focused on matters beyond their competence of just thinking--or perhaps they did not, and nothing would change anyway. The more he conspired, the more he tested--and results showed no clear evidence in favour to either side--it was unknown to him if this was good or bad news, all he knew was that it was news. This was enough--at the same time not--and he would have to consider being satisfied at such unfairness.

It would always be like that, yes. Never not, no. The ability to stay indifferent in times of obscurity and adversity was essential to a successful time as a person creature. Especially knowing that sentience force was a game of probability and the wisest actions to take was to acknowledge that--doing so by understanding the vital times to strike with risk-takes or to withdraw the temptations to--and with so much reward on the latter side, many failed with their misfortune. 

And so off they went--toward a yak-less rest of their lives. 

When he was fifty,^⁠3 he began to believe less and less in a delusional state but more into a messianic complex. What else would he be here for, if not for the mysterious rhythmic beating of his own blood pump? This extreme solipsism would render everyone useless, including Paris and her offspring. Long had gone the days that he could so innocently do something and it would not matter, and that they would be actions inconsequential to his beneficial future, for now, it was all that mattered--matters of consequence were lead by his thinking organ, his decisions, his tools at the end of his side limbs with five protruding snatchers. 

What caused the redness in the face-sides? What caused the caterpillar-futures in the digestive organ? What caused the expansional procreation due to the undying desire to do so stemming from those red face-sides and caterpillar-futures in the digestive organ? Why is it that person creatures have a feeling in which they are self-conscious, feel shame and awkwardness, but in the end they are one with descendants that will carry their name--then do so again with the same exact process? What drove the ultimate program that ran the intricate systems of the normal body? Why did this body change, why would it be so satisfactory at times, then so much of the opposite later? Why was it limited by a short amount of clock-ticks? Why why why why why why why, because because because because because because. Except there would not be the last because, because. And there would not be any at all, in fact, because the be-causes never came. Perhaps they came, but never in time--within the lifespan of the universe’s breath when it breathes sentience force into the creatures that solemnly own it. Only dignified reverence and honour was reserved for praise. Writhing, withering wilts when water-waisted wells wet with washed, worn winter-walking-warmers, wasted with wondrous wading. Aye! He was in no mood for them, no. He was rather in the mood for--well, supposedly, not them. But he knew they were necessary to stay in the zone of warmth needed to survive, supposedly--in the harsh realm of old man December-January-February snowflake season. Pitiful at times was his meander into his endeavours to achieve simplicity at a time when nothing was simple.

Yet, everything still was, for he was the most opposite to simple--and so by comparison was he so high above them all--he would be the one who would ruin their chances of glory by taking them.

Everything was drivel. He realized that in the vast and complex rock-ball, combined with the vast and complex number of things and objects and media and all things in general person creatures might encounter in a day, the smallest things influenced their decisions, such as a word that they liked and decided to insert, such as drivel. As with the humongous collection of them inserted in the centre of the piece, pretentious vocabulary--which was, in fact, drivel. Ha! Apathetic was everyone.

Nothing would ever amount to the fact that desires that wished to be fulfilled would remain unfulfilled--the wants of which would only be granted to some and not all the time. And this was the case for those who had it all--yet through it all, gained a state of a lesser being, with the formalities of immorality woven in their tales. Those who would achieve fake spouses with their desired level of highness, only to gain it through materialism and not virtue. This was fake, and this was the utter form of melancholy for most. 

Through emotional means was it accomplished to enact the regularities of a single lifetime. Without such simulation, no existence of trueness would occur, for how can one call a sentience force runtime valid and true without the validation of trueness?

He would begin the conclusion of the lifetime-old intermission with the aftermaths of his past. What caused him to excite his suspicion at ordinary elements in a single today, one may ask? His dutiful bond to the excellency of normality ineptitude. For when he woke he saw such a gift of sentience force embedded so powerfully into his mind, engraved solemnly with not much reason to it. For what he saw when he entered the room was incredible crying, the work of the creator. And there, he saw it--he understood. That we are never infinite and we will never be, all our understanding of the universe is founded on a basis of person creature ideas and linguistics, we will never understand the true theory of nature without the capacity to do so in the conditions of a person creature. The chasms and rollercoasters would suit this recollection of thought to remind that such chaos was born from the infant’s incredible crying. The quenching quake of his equestrian steed who would squander all his foes to make an appearance, percolating its ideas to the matter of existence. Although abject was his own, he desired to remain stolid and keep his actions under a pseudonym that would fit to his benefit.

And yet, in the vastly perfect imperfect syndrome he so heavily believed in, there would be those days when it was expected for Paris to break down--literally down. When checking the door lock would never be enough, and anxiety would be the villain arriving. 

“It’s alright,” she said. The man tried to help her up. “I’m alright, in fact. I--I simply need to check the doorknob again. And the stove. It is a matter of safety, you must know that. You do know that. You will know that, you will accept to know that.”

This was to be a scenario that would entail itself to be different, he suggested--and when he suggested to the universe, it complied. He used his object-holders and cupped her face. She looked up slowly and, as he expected, solemnly. There was nothing but the intense quietness, and the feel-good in the oxygen around the two individuals. 

“Paris,” he said. That was all he said. That’s all. Except not, he said more. He did not know what to say next, yet he said more--he believed he did, and he hadn’t yet. He slipped up--of course he had, he just did not at the moment, but he knew in the future he would look back and know as a fact that he did say more. The more was to come now, right now, at the very moment, and he was certain.

“You are tired.”

The droplets that he knew only came during sadness fell down her face now, and she averted those usually-bright and full of energy optical organs toward the floor, which she suddenly found such an interest in. 

“I know.”

The man nodded. They both knew why, it was obvious. He sat next to her on the kitchen floor, cradling her physical embodiment and cherishing the other aspects. The once-strong creature laid her head on him--and he thought so highly of his rock-ball’s tendency of perfection, that he aimed to believe it was merely his own doing and belief that it wasn’t. He could not have been more wrong--to think that others experienced the sadism of the one-above-all, or perhaps just mother rock-ball. To think that the precedence that overclouded his past judgement in the favour of everyone not within their own vision of solipsism was an opposite-falsity, then he would have annexed and apprehended his actions throughout the sun-surrounds. But the intensity at which no words would be spoken was great. This troubled him--it also soothed him. Perhaps they needed a break. Perhaps they didn’t need a break. Perhaps they did--yet he knew they did not--yet he knew they did.

The universe is a sandbox of particles reacting with one another. Some particles try to understand each other. This was the case with all and he knew so. This was what he believed in. This was the very nature and core of reality--there was nothing less of the truth. All of existence could be explained with such a statement, it’s true.

Then why did it feel more than that? Why did it feel, so heavily ingrained in his feelings as well, that it was much more? So much more? How can particles try to understand each other, if they are not conscious, they do not contain a sentience force, they cannot think, they cannot feel, they cannot make their own decisions, they cannot understand. And yet, here he was, thinking, feeling, understanding this particular set of particles that he so closely held to his blood pump, embracing it on the kitchen floor. And they--it--she, was also thinking, feeling, understanding the set of particles embracing her. In fact, extending that further--she was loving them--it--him. How was that possible? How could such an innate connection exist, when they were merely lifeless constructs, lifeless parts, yet as a whole they are enlightened to an entirely unique level? 

Then the collection of particles looked up at him. Rather, they made a conscious decision to turn themselves in his direction. He gazed into sad eyes. Rather, his own particles aimed themselves at her own. Thinking. Feeling. Understanding.

This was magical--exceptional. He only felt it now--how it was all terribly impossible to understand the complexity of the cosmos, how everything was the way it was. How time flowed and things on masses of rock fell towards them. How complex biology was and how things worked the way they did. How everything in the vast collection of empty space filled with pure elements was so grand, so HUGE, so MASSIVE, so infinitely BEYOND THE COMPREHENSION OF ANY MORTAL.

Yet here he was, a simple boy holding a crying girl, and experiencing a moment. 

This ability was too great for him. It was too great for anyone. The ability to know all this. Why must he be cursed, since birth, to know this much about everything? Why could he not just be like everyone else, anthem-less, and careless about any of these facts he thought of just now? Why must he be the only one who knew all this, and suffered from it? He wanted to live like a regular person, every day. He saw people in the streets walk without a care of the cosmos. He saw people in cafes drink their wake-up-juice without thinking about the particles their vessels were made of. He saw people having conversations in the park without wondering what sentience force was, the existence of it, the reason of existence for it. He saw all of these things happen, and he longed to be them--for every night, he would think about these things endlessly, and Paris would not know. No soul would know. Gift or burden--either was a preconceived loss, for it impeded his advancement into normality.

“I’ll be alright,” said Paris. Their optical sensors were directly at each other’s. They did not disconnect for quite some time. Perhaps, perhaps they wouldn’t. Perhaps they wouldn’t at all.

Thinly comes the fine line between reality and perception. Abstract was the sidewind allude vitality plus deception. When all digress swine-swine, confuse mortality with conception. And at last they align-oppose carnality through exception. 

The pal-callers, the wake-up-juice drinkers, the winers and diners and anthem-less would never understand the true stakes at which they lived at, so deluded in their mindless state of existence to fully comprehend their mortalities.

If there would be a single moment in his existence when his hands were colder than the furthest breaches of the merciless Antarctic. If there would be a single moment in his existence when no series of tiny events caused a decibel-metre to rise up higher than the peaks of the tallest mountains. If there would be a single moment in his existence when the Ancient Knowingness finally spoke to him about The Realness of Everything. It would be now.

Everything about him and Paris was average, from a standpoint most would consider one of importance, which would be that of aesthetics. He did not think of this as a win nor loss, for to be that ultimate deity of unlimited and boundless power, he would have to be a mix of every person creature--and at the same time none at all, for he was to be in that quantum state of anomalous superposition. Astrophobia--fear of the stars and space--fear of the endless void--twas necessary for his being--rather not, actually--but he made it such a statement in his longevous paracosm. For he lived in his longevous paracosm for so long, blurriness was all that dwindled in between his frontal-head, with two sides of organs on either side that decided, determined the outcome of what he thought was real. With the optical sensors that absorbed information through logic and reason, and the thinking organ that decided to trust that incentive without doubt--that was the stage he had resisted all his sentience force, and he would never cease to--how could he? That was his signature.

“I’ll be sure to keep this one in the memory databanks,” said Paris. 

The man nodded. He agreed. And there! That was the first time in months, during the painful agony and panic of true separation--they were as synced as could be, and he wanted to stay that way before his sentience force ended--which in turn by definition meant forever (in the eyes of the lifespan of the simple-minded person creature). 

The grandiose of altruism--so faithfully optimistic--it shattered the many core ideas behind core ideas. But his longevous paracosm was dreamlike, surreal--and he wondered about sharing it--no! He could not, that would be reckless, and yet the one person he wanted to share it with was Paris, who never asked to be a part of it, and so he wondered what made him want that--for he would not do it for free, and perhaps it was some sort of emotion that gave access to the thought of the possibility, that allowed it--and he did not know which one it was, or what one it was, or who one it was, or--was that correct? He supposed there was no one to say but himself. But the branch of metaphysics was so inconspicuous, clearly unclear, and unclearly clear--such matters of importance so desolate in the number it attracted, which was a hopeless industry--with more and more wanting less and less until they got all that they wanted--which was nothing. They lived in their orthodox hermitages and watched from afar their rock-ball burning and they didn’t even wonder about things like relationalism and moral universalism and existentialism and unifying unity, united unification and--yes, those were all that lit up their optical sensors. But the man knew what lit up his, and for him they lit up not only them--they clearly lit up beyond them, into the frontal-head, into his nerve master control centre, how exciting. 

Mansion. Hallway. Long. Tall dark woman. Spectre, apparition, shifting walls, eerie din, nighttime. 

“Are you alright?” asked Paris in his wake one day. He waited for her to inquire about his nightmare--then she didn’t, and he began to panic. It was daytime. Then she said that: “It’s daytime.” That was the sign, he interpreted, that this was no nightmare, nor daydream, but something worse. Another attack--no vision of sort, for he had long matured since the revelation that he was no messiah (he did not really, but told Paris he did to shut her up, in secrecy he knew the absolute truth--tell no one--tell no one! Tell no one! Tell no one! Tell no one!).

“I am right-all,” he said. That did not sound right--or did it--and he knew it didn’t, yet he knew it did--halt. Perhaps he needed a break. From soul-keeping, from being a keeper. 

He would have that break now--yes, now--with deep meaning and soul cleaving. The style of the nation from the east, obsessed with the rising sun.

“Who said it flowed one--way? Us. Who said it governed--the universe? Us.”

“When there is nothing--to experience something--it doesn’t exist.”

“We simply declared--that nighttime is the time to--sleep and we do it.”

Paris would always love those words of beauty--understanding wholly that existence has always been under the constant scrutiny of the ordinary person creature spectrum of vision. Whose intelligence were only to the extent of the capabilities of their thinking organs and sensors, which limited them as such. And that the Rules of the Universe were governed by none other but non-person creatures, yet we so heavily ingrain them in a person creature way. Nothing in existence claimed that nighttime was the time to rest.

To feel the safest, would you rather have your back against the endless void, facing the entire universe, or have your back against the entire universe, facing the endless void? What was scarier, facing all that we know, or facing all that is beyond what we know?

Too much--ah! He wanted his medication now--Paris would help him get it, right? Was she? No, she did not know his pain--he remembered then that he was told to ask for them--but if she really had that single pure emotion--she should know--no, she should not--yet she should, yet should not. He did anyway, so--ask. Now she knew, he knew that--and she finally did get them--but he imagined if he hadn’t needed to ask--that wold be total sync, unity--his feelings of separation grew now. Was she being negligent in her duty of tethering? Did this call for a broken mess that he would initialize? But no! He couldn’t, for that would taint his glory, his perfect sentience force--that was an impossibility, and so he would not--but the thoughts lingered, after all, he could not change them--but he can! And he will! Already the thought of being able to change them was changed, and so he knew there was success in thought-change.

“I have brought them to you,” said Paris.

He stared at her. Yes. Then wondered, what was better, the collective reassurance and aid of a community of individuals, or the individual himself on his separate quest to find truth to his individuality, away from the customs of society and all? The individuals together in their cities, while the individual counting them pass by, and on his own personal quest. In the snow-capped mountains. The light-source in the void lighting up his eyes. His hands in a posture of pride with his backpack strapped on his back, packed. A true individual.

The Age of Enlightenment--he realized since then, what options were there to solve gene degradation other than ethnic cleansing--overpopulation other than genocide. Such clear solutions to vast problems--and he wanted to tell Paris this but he predicted her reactions, first a recalling of the randomness, then a claiming of madness. Hm. If he could predict with such accuracy--that--then perhaps he was not a madman. And so he did--ask her, wait for her--scrutinize. His prediction was more or less correct, a virtual completion of precision. This time, Paris did not comfort him--he was angry at that--angry as he watched her climb the steps into the box of their sleep conductor, wanting aloneness. He gazed at the bottom of the world, felt the emotion that came along with it--for he was beginning to get good at that, interpreting them--then he thought of how proud he was at that, which sent him back to his clear senses--that he was superior! Perhaps this act of broken mess was what was needed! That it was necessary to be that flawlessness he so dearly wanted in his sentience force! That he had seen this coming, that Paris would grow tired of such ness, and that she would change regardless of her promises--and that the ultimate move was to be pure with his thoughts, this was the absolutism he chased oh so long in his wake, that he needed, that he wanted.

This test was what he had wanted--the kindness of Paris needed to be tested--initializing a test procedure for her to have the opportunity to have a flaw, to be mean for once, but her flaw was her inability to be mean after all. And this, in turn, was a basic and valid flaw--one that he saw blocked realism, and so perhaps this broken mess was actually needed--in his meaning, that it was not by choice, but by necessity--and that made his blood pump work less, eased it--told himself that his blood pressure would go down and it did. And it did. It really did. 

But because it did, it would feel the pain--it would reminisce, indulge in the past when it did not work as easily, where it held more pride--and that was also an immediate concern, for it was a valid pain. It would become nostalgic of what it had but ecstatic for what it had let go--yes, that was seemingly familiar with his current situation. And of course, a matter such as this was one that could not be avoided by the peer--and so he did what he so desperately needed to do. He told Paris. Paris was shocked--utterly shocked, and in his mind, he recalled. It went something like this:

“I am deeply sorry,” a teary stargazing boylessness-holder claimed in between sobs. He would not consolidate this attitude. How dare she!

“Fake! False! Fiction! I have known you for virtually all my sun-surrounds.”

“Then know this as the one time you do not know me.”

“Why would I misjudge such obviousness?” He held back those dreadful eye droplets--he was stoic, he was a rock in the rock-ball, he was blanked--he remembered that. It changed his voice, although--he gave it that. Made it harder to say things. He did not know why--he wished to. He really wished to, yes. “Breaking break--it is what it is, what we need.”

Paris nodded, agreeing. Not before a multitude of offers, such as the counselling of the couples. Which he refused heavily--there was nothing in the universe that would make him want to degrade himself to such a point of inferiority that help was what he now sought--not a way.

Effects--them, of course--they took hold immediately, placing themselves in the blood pump of the dwelling. The offspring would wonder and question the crying of the mother--and the man, he believed so, would actually do the same. Was it for the act of separation and its consequences, just that fact itself--or truly, a deeper and innate level of trust-break? The act of separation and the separation itself were two clear differences, one validating an emotionless state and one validating the opposite. But yes, Paris sought out comfort--she made her way into the box of Violet, straight to the sleep conductor. 

“Why the ness, mother?” she so adorably asked, in that squeaky tune that the man once remembered hearing himself in (those were the days).

The lack of an answer shed no light for the little boylessness-holder--gave up on the inquiry and joined her in the sleep conductor instead, giving warmth to her by the easiest means necessary.

He could not push away the relentless thought that he had attracted two over one--which was a prideful thing, but somehow for once in his sentience force it wasn’t. But here they came--oldest and middle, who dressed themselves in the clothes they were already wearing beforehand, pre-comforting mode, and he found a new sleep conductor companion then, with Dalia. And here came the inquiry.

“What is wrong, Cosmos? What is happening, Cosmos? Are you sad too, Cosmos? Will you requite to mother, Cosmos?”

Of course, he would not answer. Cut.

Interacting with any form of media or art on this dreaded rock-ball required innate and learned person creature knowledge--one cannot prepare for which aspects or categories, but call upon the ones in their database when needed. If there was a way to tap into all this infinite hidden knowledge, in order to prepare for any form of media or art whether created by person creatures or not, one would have endless power. 

Finally, the time came for the greet and meet with the one type of person creature the man hated and never wanted to greet and meet. But Paris insisted, said it was absolutely necessary. And it would only be just them two--which was a reminisce of sort. 

The man who was an expert of the neuronic messages in the thinking organ and the behaviour of person creatures would inquire them--Paris, who knew more than himself than himself which he found odd--but she acted it, the expert man asked her, not him, he did not know why. From the numerous tests came a diagnosis conclusion that the expert man was afraid of--he saw it in his frontal-head, and he also interpreted mass emotion of something else. This time, he would read this--and he did. He wanted to, but Paris said he needed to, but he would not have her control him! No, she did not make him do it--he wanted to do it. 

“Main main: SPD. Main: DD. A. OCD. ADHD. MDD. S. BD. D (future). Lesser: FPP. CD. FD. St.S. AIWS. AHS. Sa.S. E. ESS. I/S-C.”

Supposedly terrible--and supposedly incurable. Not so terrible, oh so terrible. But plain--nothing more-er, nothing lesser--hold--why was it that way that one term was a validity and one was not? And Paris dragging him out at the moment, but no--he had to figure out, he could not not! He had to, he would get to the bottom of this, and when he would, his yaks in the north would be insanely proud of him--and those wake-up-juice drinkers should bow down and pray to him, yielding all sense of sanity they have left! Pitfall once more, here here--tyrannous welders, smouldering--ah was the wake so hot. 

That was to say--his inevitable downfall would be due to the climactic opposition--he was a robust Schizotypal--nothing less, nothing more. Crystalline would the gears be in the works of scissors down the pipe drain. With the anonymity and randomness--unpredictability in predictability, in the works--three by three and twisty twisty--synonymous with that thinking organ he so heavily used. Heave and cleave the weave. With the six physical qualities of state that a property of matter could ensue from its birth. Which was, innate--and only in a metre that was visible--with tons and tons more invisible--branded heinous yip-yapper gobstopper breaking that eating organ--no more connections of the eating organ with Paris--why was that the initial thought? Why could it not be the truest version of concern, which would be his capability aptitude of fuelling himself with rations? Especially in such a tight version of reality he was in right now--with mice in the traps. Sticky--revisioned with unlighted and boredom. 

He would try to remember dearly so hard--but it was hard--and he tried to hardly, but it hardly worked. What was he to remember? Of course, the spark--which he knew person creatures would know what he meant by it--for every pair experienced it--and this would be no different case, no different matter--and it mattered--pup, twinkle, as if castrated. Har, he would say. Yes, he would say. 

He did not want help either--why would he? He would, why--either help, want not. Did he? 

In times of crisis as such--the sea monster waning in the midst, lurking, ready to sprout at such unreadiness, which was its ulterior motive, fine by him--fine by him for it was his ulterior motive, and he would be ready to sprout in the midst. Tattered pair, stop and stare, always catch on fiery air. Don’t despair, stand and spare, in your calling you won’t bear. That was it! He had that promise--he remembered, and he would keep it. And finally, he was somewhere, he got here, by himself, by himself!

Then this would lead to a surge of multitude, of plethora, of maximization--a connection, line--that would go on and on until he would reach the very core, the very centre, the very top of the mountain, peak--he would never rest, rest? Never. And so it began. 

From that promise came the burden--the one where he was to be responsible for everything as such, not her, and so he would be the one to have the promise. 

A day when he was twelve: and a certain magnetism that pulled him toward the boylessness-holder that all knew what--for it was an embedded program with the sentience force of any person creature. It was there, for him, even if he never did experience it truly, or fully, or truthfully, or fulfill-y. But it was there, and he knew because of the spark. The spark that happened was evidence, it was, yes. Oh, how he longed for it again, but he knew all it would take was a remembrance, a thorough recollection of it that would create it again--no, bring it back. This was no revival ceremony--this was a retrieval of what was once lost, and still there--the lamp of light in the sky would always be there even during the darkness of sixty minute collections starting from the evening till the light of dawn. But this magnetism was powerful, and it wasn’t toward the person that shared his offspring currently, no. Dynasty weltering and boots shaking, yet--he had enough courage, he was unsure if he did, yet he knew he was sure, yet he didn’t. Yet, he still did it, for every universe bubble had to be created at some point, there was no not choosing one, no. And so he would choose the more interesting one, at least, the one more interesting to him--truth to be told, the one more interesting to anyone, yet the most risky--yet that was what made it more interesting, for sentience force was nothing but a regard for high risk, and then as they say high reward.

Ice--thick enough to walk on kind, type--it was thin but sturdy, sturdy enough to carry his expenditure. Yes, it would do. The elements of nature would be on his side, for his messianic complex allowed him to believe so, and it didn’t matter if he believed so or not, for they would be (and they would be because he believed so, which wouldn’t matter if he believed so, for they would be, and they would be because he believed so). But he was the first one to decide this--to go up to this boylessness-holder and question it outward. In skates--in rink. 

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi,” she said, with a smile--that ended abruptly--for after the syllable the rink broke, got wrecked by gravitating weight that the moon could not hold, destroyed--and she fell into the cold, cold, cold, cold, cold dihydrogen monoxide, which was a shame. He had spoken first, and this was what befell upon the luckless lassie. That’s what happened when he broke the ice. 

Although he recalled all being well and all after, he did not recall a insurmountable relation that exceeded the standards of Paris--and for that, evidence was called for too--and he liked to call for it, for he had it: Paris was the one with him now. A shame that--that was the system, the way the rock-ball worked. That singles were individuals, and individuals were singles. That the first one would never be the last one. That in this flawless society of his being, inside his mind, would there not be a single case where this was untrue. Saddening--help, yearn--yarn, optimal rendering, declaration gondolas. 

Other time--or that, of that which he knew, stored in his thinking organ--was the downpour of all hope into the drain of one mate who went to lectures with him--in youth time, of course, yes. Which was--a depressed boy, who claimed that he was depressed, for reasons unfathomable to the basic mind, who was wondering about committing a self-death with a noose in a room. His friend called him and said, “Things will get better! Just hang in there!”

And so he did. His end, painful or painless, no matter--that was that--and he had followed the advice correctly, what a hero. This, in turn, caused the lecture members to pass their chosen rides of education--hooray, hurrah, yippee. Yet no hoorays, hurrahs, of yippees for the hero--him who bestowed such greatness on them, who had befallen a comedic tragedy, yet no, a tragic comedy--tantrums, wailing, solemn reverence--black on skin, hordes of kin, and the fallacy of the dihydrogen monoxide pouring, emitting an expression of affliction, anguish, wretchedness. Which--he was not there for--yet knew all the details wonderfully. Which was wonderful. Ah, the humping protuberance of egotism during a time of humbleness, and the sanity of the ones who had the audacity to show their humbleness, especially during a time of egotism, hey alright! This robust Schizotype-ness was a totality to combust, on. 

And so--late in the day, later--he sought out Paris out of the tumbling mess of business and busyness, which was a pain, a drag, a chore--yet irresponsibly mandatory, non-negotiable. Did he have something to say? Answering--to do it, he would require time and space, irrevocably was the setpoint to transpire into neglecting at a task that needed to be tasked--done. Imaginary was the annex of solaris, the index, to outdo. But rather--which also fought his intangible doubts of requited affection, a hard-fought and hard-won battle--which was, in fact, not won yet--she sought him first, one, initially. For most--a boost of egotism--a tender repairing to a ginger mettle, but only reserved for the needy, and the needy were the dullards and simpletons. 

“I wish to call the handyman,” said Paris. “And I wish he does his job fast.”

This was it, he realized--the unreadiness crept up, no, surged up--and it was ultimately, in the end, too fast. The winery cobbles, blimey wobbles, and the antonym of the antonym of stress had finally arrived to this never-ending war, aided or lead, he supposed, by that cursed sea monster, shivering. Pompous this would be, definitely.

First, he had to recall which action would gain that much-needed and much-wanted response. The crossing of the upper limbs--it would do, at least he believed it would do, and that was all he needed. Belief. 

“These are tough times--for many. But not for us. This--it is false--all of it, everything, it is all false and unreal and I think and believe and reprimand the opposite so, for I want us to be different and thereby I declare it so. We will be different--supposedly we are, already, already are--and this means that this is all false and practice, and a mere transparent pretence of what it is not. Our intense-fondness is perfect, ideal, the uttermost highest degree of standards, the model for all, the real one, the original--it will not break, it will not cease, and it will not shatter or meander or dwindle by my sole command--powered only by will and willpower. Simple faith in this would eradicate the problem entirely, eviscerate it with pyromania faster than photons on the move.”

“You, I lie when I say you of all people--but you for sure, you should know that is not the way this rock-ball works.”

Tardy running rebels! Blather the lather and resuscitate those handyman tools, in a wisecrack of definitions. Why was this person creature so stubborn, so perfect? Why was she so reasonable, logical, and that was what he wanted to be--and so he hated her, yet could not stop his intense-fondness of her, yet wanted to, so did. What would be a viable solution?--he knew. If she would retract any sense of moral sanity. Why did she not have the temptation of the sea monster? Why, in his flawless longevous paracosm, was she the only one who was not flawless merely because she was the only one that was?

He would make it not that way! He would enrage, he would enforce--he would police this magnitude of ethical behaviour and reduce it to its lowest terms, division--crush it, down to ashes in an irreversible chemical change, and it would roar its flames to the heavens! He would push with the force of infinity.

“No!” he said. “No, no, no!”

And she knew--she wouldn’t not--for again, this flawlessness came in play--and now it would die. Her eyebrows creasing, the first omen--now that was something he could have intense-fondness for, not the boylessness-holder he once put so high on a pedestal. Now, he outgrew that, for he knew what deserved to be there, and it was him--and though he knew this was a grave mistake, he did it. And he knew the gravity of the mistake for he was too wise not to, yet still did it--yet loved it, yet hated it. And he still did it for an unexplainable reason, throwing all rationale out the glass pane sill, vacuuming all the fantasy and mania, the driving force of his anthem singing his sentience force. Ah, the sea monster would have its glory now, yes. Did it always? Maybe not, no. Maybe yes (that’s what scared him). But nothing scared him--his thought intercepted, attacked from the inside of the bubble of another one, that was a first.

The creature in front of him sighed--and that was all. No tantrum of sort--which was unexpected, but rather, the most expected thing in the universe. And then the droplets came--the cursed droplets which he was unfamiliar with--he liked to believe he was, at least, and liked to think that Paris was, which was a degrading thing on the political spectrum, which now made him their enemy. Oh well--thoughts were thoughts. He was not like this though--he believed that, that was all he needed, all that mattered. And so, he believed that he did not have to comfort Paris as she carried those many droplets from her frontal-head all the way up the horizontal upwards ladder, into the box with their sleep conductor. That was not his duty, his duty no more. If she was a claimer of space, he would be so too. Only the equal was worthy--and so he would ensure that so. He would claim the entire place that was not inside, and therefore own a realm of substantially higher volume than hers--and this would make the unequal but so be it--this was her choice, what could he do? He would not be the role of formatter, he was a sole proprietor--and that was speaking about the characteristic of being solo--which sounded much better than being alone, always. 

Journey solo--so it began. Though, not official, not legal--but nonetheless the start. A new boylessness-holder, perhaps? That was a possibility he did not want to delve into--but oh, those cravings to do it! Those creatures who strung themselves to those cravings, all the more to destroy these types of intense-fondness relations of pairs who wanted to retreat the sands of the glass to its utmost minimum all the while holding each other’s organic grabbing tool. Hold--solo? Was that not what he wanted to avoid--especially when he wanted to live that longevous paracosm that he could not get out of neurologically?--which was, officially, declared and initialized by the expert of the mind--but he was much more genius than perceived--or at least he believed so, and he knew it. He also knew, that he was not--yet didn’t, yet did. And he hated it. Anyhow, this erudition of The Realness of Everything, powered by Ancient Knowingness from the anthem exclaimed that though he was ultimately aware of all the symptoms, he chose to be uncaring for the reduction of them--rather, he purposefully initiated them. In turn--a causation for the damaged relation with Paris, he supposed. But eraser--drainage, the giggly gadder of race-horsing, from the horn of the horse--which was imaginable, and since imaginable, belief was involved, and so it was corporeal, existing. But only for him--that power was reserved for him, he knew--and he hated it. Yet he knew he didn’t hate it, in fact, he had strong feelings of the opposite toward it--yet knew those feelings were false. And yet knew the belief that those feelings were false were false. And knew that the feelings being false were false was false--is false, all--the falsity was false. Which meant--true? Mightily, perhaps. Destined--this was it.

Exasperated was he in the face of normality duties--which was quite obvious to many. When at night, dark and cold, shivering--the loneliness of nothingness and the nothingness of loneliness--when all is asleep, the world fades by, the street lights and the stars, the sole cars and the crickets--the night mares and terrors. The steed of fear. This was what happened when his mate of soul was away. Not away--rather, not not, the same dwelling--but yet so distant, an unexplainable mechanism that never distributed itself properly to his taste. This complex aspect was one he would never understand. 

Shattered--postal regret--quest tall, surmounting, encompassing, bewildering, uncontainable, inexplainable, bolstering, non-confinable! Soporific tenderness within the household, yet such chaos and energy from him--up awake at the time when supposed to be confiding in the opposite. Those clock ticks--unbearable--yet had nothing to do with the furry animal--and so vastly in number but so slow--and so loud, yes. The loudness was insanity, insane--and stupidity was a forerunner of describers. Transcribing them would be painful--wakefully so, with a scarce set of clock-ticks to count the clock-ticks--which would inevitable be the same number. But the seniority of the sonority was stabbing--full of sharpness, full of infiniteness, full of--well, full of nothingness, emptiness--carelessness for his well-being. The same for his ability to induce intense-fondness, and his need of repair for it--for he had once forgotten the sole reason he required the collection of bones and tissue with a word that would acquire its attention--Patis--in his existence. That group of particles grabbed his attention so much, every day--yet he had no more to spare for it. That creature--it was mystifying, how much he needed it. Craved for it.

Start--and that was that. He was beginning to remember--this was good--godly, and he knew this was so, for a few clock-ticks ago, he knew those emotions were the opposite--those were all those clock-ticks were ever good for. Nothing else, no. A shame. This fire in his soul--ever bright, ever desiring for the fragrancy of aptitude. It was all it ever burned for--and this time, he would give it the oxygen. 

He breathed in--out. This was a start, although that was already delegated--but what was the harm? He knew now, with every berated piece of knowledge now in his grasp--whole thing, wrong. The true false rock-ball was his innate own--the one he concluded to be the opposite, for this was real sentience force, and he had to make it up to her.

Start--blood pump doing its job exponentially well--up those steps that he conquered every single collection of twenty-four hours, although now it was so beastly--so towering, so above his talent in war mastery. Yet he knew it was just the same, for daily, it was a fact he was sure to count on to maintain his sanity of reality. This was a feat none other than him would, should, and could accomplish--rather, the climbing of the mountain and the taming of the beast. This beast belonged to him, no mountain had the ability to hinder his advancement towards its intense-fondness--for he knew it needed him as well. And that she was hurt that he did not show the same--for he did, he really did have the same, but he did not show it, no. Which was, to say--expected, it was him, how could it not be expected? But in the chaos of transgressions, this was no matter for which she put mental power into, therefore having an amnesia-like capability to use unwisely. 

Final destination, pithing his pith, within reach. Crawling over his intestines were those darned invertebrate pests--adult caterpillars--yellow blocks of fat from cow-liquid and cream plus tiny black bodies with wings in dwellings--usually swatted--and they equaled the compounded term for the totalness of unpleasant uncomfortableness and irritation in his gizzard. This surely would never end! He was in an act of desolate desperation, yes. Yes, yes. Don’t know--please don’t go--but the walk was gruelling, and down a false pit was the crowned victor of earnestness. 

“Devan?” said Paris, and there she was--in that goddess-like state of purity--of wishfulness, of understanding the greed of others yet never being filled to the brim, a hand-grabber, a tear-wiper, a merciful contentedness-donator, a cheerfulness-spammer, a light-filled spark. That spark--now a sparkle, and they sparkled--in those optical sensors that he once had an intense-fondness for, and still did, and forever would--and, and--and then she said something, which showed that empowering vocality, created with the tunes of songbirds from the kingdom of infinite light past the white masses of gaseous dihydrogen monoxide that sometimes cried its liquid form plus some destructive electrons when the Ancient Knowingness was angry at person creatures as a whole, a sea of muddy waters full of sins--unbelievable stories of magnitude, exasperated and axed by hyperbolic beggars who only wanted the good for their families, but now smitten with the glories of the crying storms and--halt, she was going to say something, yes.

No. “Shh,” said the man. She did not move when he used the limbs he had his entire sentience force to lock her into an embrace--which she did not reciprocate--at first.

A bet--one on the fact, that, in his hopefulness, the translucent energy would be enough to transport the memory bank data that they created together, and he would have no way of knowing if she did, or if it was the exact way he hoped it to be, or expected, but at least it would work.

Rainfall downpour, catastrophic bolts from the crying masses of grey--in the dwelling, and the pen that would determine his destiny was given. The sunset in the bleachers--the multitude of times she had protected him. The promise of faithfulness during their time in the thirdhand-level education centre, in his insecure sureness of her lessening dependency on the collection of cells he called his own, when he was more dependent on her as ever. The dead of nights, the firelights, the snowball fights, and the lifeblade and lifeblood insightful rights, rightful insights. Judge and jury--wrath and fury. Moving from the face of the inside within.

And then for her--so much as well. Different, but the same nonetheless. The warding off of bullies in the older slash younger days, improving her security--as well as her intense-fondness for the boy. His upbringing of flaws and his ability to promise his gratitude for her qualities till the end of the universe’s clock-ticks, such as her frightening impulses and convulses of headache-inducing rituals. What was she to do? Of course, darker than the brightening hue was the dark horse that used to control her fate, but now she controlled it--riding it with the saddle given to her by the boy. The drunkards of the bars who would get it on with their glances at her and her deceivingly and seemingly ringless state. 

And suddenly, as if merging in unity all the magic in the rock-ball--gone was all the name-calling, the anger-thrashing, the sadness-spreading, the outside-voice-yelling, the stability-falling, the apartness-increasing, the difficulty-inducing, and of course the idealistic separation rehabilitation. For those vows that were resented at first to be heard by the general public were announced within the silence of an open field with bleachers under a dusk, and renounced with the memory of them. The words of wisdom said by that practitioner of intense-fondness resonated in a vibration so deep and profound--unexplainable to any creature in the entirety of the cosmos--that she knew, yes. She remembered. In fact, she remembered it all. She finally embraced him back--and that was it--the finality of reunification.

“I don’t have enough clock-ticks in my sentience force,” said the stress-relieved and duty-relieved man worrisomely. “Nowhere near enough in order to find another true one that will understand, that has the same memories--the same data in the memory banks of our thinking organs, that would be familiar with me since birth, that would know everything down to my very core, my anthem, or understand the words of it, that would go through the stages of sentience force existence and development with my body, soul, mind--there is simply not enough sand in the glass.”

“Me too,” she said in between vivacious sobs. “Me too.” So ebullient. 

From their slanted view--falling the parts asleep that believed in the reverse-sleep of unloving-ness, now in total synchronization. A chance at that heavily desired perfectibility, perhaps--was now. Fortifications of crafted patience would get them far through the levels, with beautiful innocence--past the stages that most failed in. Burning out was a reverse-inevitability--the flame would remain as powerful as ever with as many oxygen tanks it needed, and they would walk side by side in the upcoming future as they did in the down-coming past, and in the current coming present. All tenses.

“If there was a machine that could copy your thinking organ memories and place them in a person creature, I would not take it over you. And if the data could be placed in an engineered body genetically identical to yours, I would not take it over you. And if it were both, and the creature was named Paris and transported back in time in a clock-tick-combinator-infuser mechanism--a date editor machine--and was purposefully placed in the spot that we met while they kidnapped you, effectively replacing your existence in my life with an exact version copy, I still would not take it over you. Because it isn’t you.”

She nodded, the droplets over her smile of happiness--and he perceived that correctly for once, he interpreted it, he knew what it was. And he hated it--but this time, well, this time, not so much. 

On her forehead he planted one of those telltale signs of intense-fondness embellishment with his eating organ, and buried it under his chin, gazing at the melted-sand wall that allowed the photons of humanity’s only rock-ball natural satellite to pass through due to its inherited transparency. 

“And if all that were true and done,” he said, “I would know. Even in the difficulty to tell due to all the scientific enhancements to ensure I wouldn’t be able to, I would be able to. For our connection--it is perplexing, as it transcends all aspects of realism and absolutism, time and space. That is fact--and that ability will never diminish, in both our favour.”

For once--the bleariness was faded--for he spoke with absolute clarity and brevity. Paris really was that sole sanity inducer--she temporarily cured his absence from reality. And he hated that--no, he was grateful for that--yet he hated it. Yet he knew he didn’t, yet he knew he did. And yet, he knew he didn’t.

His disorder--to not be able to show emotions. If there was to be a cure in progress, he would not be able to express his happiness. 

This elongated tomfoolery--the eloping meritocracy of the system of interconnected works in which all advancements into eternity driven by the bystanders of revolution hold themselves accountable for their actions which they think control fate but no fate controls them and they become somber in both mental state and appearance that their merit creates what they are but only themselves are responsible for upholding this false mindset which can be overridden with the simple philosophy of not believing it while working towards goals that they know they can achieve not through the abilities of their talents but by sheer hard work and mastery through experience and resilience and that meritocracy is a lie for if person creatures are accountable for their hard work and good deeds then they have to be accountable for their mistakes and misdeeds which create the poor and the homeless who depend on the herd to survive through scavenging and who believe in the lie of meritocracy and that they caused this on themselves when it wasn’t them and it is all truly false which makes it falsely true and by that common motley of erstwhile and archaic thoughts from those poisoning scoundrels those sea-dogs who want nothing but the absence of purgation when it is necessary to a prelude to a society without meritocracy and that would improve all aspects of daily sentience force in the negative sense but in the positive sense it would disable the prestige of the hard-workers which would then cause them to feel as if it is all useless which causes the cycle to restart in that the system needs another meritocracy system to prevent the depression of uselessness and add rewards and prestige and this once more causes the prejudice against the failures and the money-less which only breaks the rock-ball that the man lived in which he did not want to be broken but he knew it was.

Doctorate-holder: “Yet the possibilities are quite endless and I will continue this yada yada. Are you a brain of bolts? You could and might be a brain of Boltzmann.”

But no, he would think, or perhaps say. He was even better--and he knew this. And he hated it. If the thermodynamic fluctuations of atoms happening would create such a multitude of matter in existence that formed all that is ever known, he was the one with the luckiest mind that knew everything. This fine-tuned number of crackers--number of graham--was all it would take to explain the different possibilities of a sentience force time. 

Click--boringly the western lake--bowing lee in the leeward bow of the deck of the ship--headfirst, steadfast into the churning waters. They would be rippling, and the creature giving them those vibrations would be that dreaded sea monster. And he would be asymptomatic, and he would showcase himself to be. 

This soliloquy of his entire livingness would be a showcase of an endless stream of confusion and thought. He would gain his world-class sobriquet through his person creature angst at wanting to be known worldwide for his nothingness--his lack of something to offer it. And he would gain this after numerous advances toward genius ideas which would go unaccounted for because of the extremely critical masseurs of grand-mastery and their benevolent wishes. For he understood this system of meritocracy a long, long time ago and therefore built his ongoing actions against it. Average--and since that was the majority of most person creatures, only a few would be at the top. And they say that if a person really wanted so bad enough to gain those materialistic achievements, they would stop at nothing to work harder and harder--yet so much a case as it could be for nevertheless were the dwindling numbers who would experience such because of their faith in a lacklustre talent in them--only because of their backless efforts to ensure themselves to be wronger than no one but themselves. 

See it--he could, he definitely could--the text that would bring him glory. The cover--the spotlight--the mention in lists and critic reviews and give him that acclaim he knew he could attain--not deserve, for he was not there yet. And he knew that potential inside was what he needed to tap into, but how? For the intense focus could only be gotten without the distractions of his biological needs--the excretion and the ingestion, the body-cooldown most did during nighttime--the hydrating liquid. If he could enter that state of carelessness that would produce the most unimaginable and creative works of intelligence--if so all person creatures did that--then there would be an extremity, yes! Then there would be ultimatum--magnitude--ulterior superior interior gargantuan epic!

In those grand moments did he imagine--visualize greatness and genius and hard work--and then thought of the possibility of it--and then wasted time at the possibility of it--and then wasted time not doing it--and then in the end gave up. That was the formula for the average potato. Raw ideas--and their tendency to never get out of that state of being raw. And then those who challenge them to make them true.

Convergence and illustrious catastrophe--his transdisciplinary somnium showing him the path to fulfillment. And he realized--in that moment, in fact--that no matter how hard he tried to be that super powerful being, he could not get rid of the fact of his origin. His origin being--duplicated from two birth-givers, like all else--everyone would be so indifferent at the non-difference. But him, though--he saw this as a disaster. Now he would never reach that ultimate state--how can he be sure his genes would suffice, if they came from previous ones? If he came from none, for example--that would fill his glee--but now he was in extremis and this was no good, no.

To be dilly-dallying so much on this rock-ball, wasting time and watching the years go by without a second advancing into that final destination--final state, final glory. If this was the promulgation of never-reach into the abyss of greatness--if this was that powerful revelation that all person creatures would receive at some point in their sentience force--it was utterly saddening--although he would not call it that for he was stoic and he would not be able to--yet he knew he wasn’t. Yet he was, though. This was what he wanted--a superposition of both states, yes.

However the advent of this endorsement pushed him into alignment until he felt he was walking on a tensegrity. Paris--so full of wonderment, and wondering how she was so full of wonderment, and wondering how he wondered how she was so full of wonderment. 

And one day in the past (and now) he said, “Paris, let us give the offspring happiness.”

Something perhaps bodacious what was in mind--and this was a necessity. Zoo--that’s where they went. The anomaly holder, the extravagant viewer. The place of all purpose for the littluns. It was there that the man would find out--well, nothing. No step closer to transcendence. 

The three offspring would dilly-dally indeed, which was what they did best. Up and down and left and right and front and back and near and far--they held interest here once and interest here next--energy and so filled with it. It was here the man thought that he could run as fast as them. Adults never showed that, for the children were always pulling them faster to show them something--yet he could outrun them by an unbelievable ratio. But they never did. He then wondered if it was for a societal reason--if his public image would be in grave danger in doing so. Mattered to him--if it did, he would not do it. 

So Paris bid him farewell as he raced around with the offspring, the ordinary pal-callers and wake-up-juice drinkers and potatoes and anthem-less and loud-sounders and cold-handers and yak-less and ennui-filled and begotten ridden would, with their thinking organs indicating an appropriate time to, have their thinking organs order the front of the top of their cellular vessels to express an emotion similarly to that of confusion.

“This is fun!”

“I am faster than you, Cosmos!”

“Let’s get to the orangutangs! Then maybe the yaks!”

An officer--ranger of parks, or perhaps one of an authority similar--there to stop them in their tracks. Intimidation was key and so important in such a scenario in the eyes of one of them. The man wanted to sprint past him--no, through him--and that would show them a lesson! That would show all the rock-ball a lesson! 

Then a realization--this was no mere utopian instance--and public was his current place. If he were to do so--consequences. If he were to continue to do so--problems, enacted upon by his societal society. But quaking the weltering wind for this was a grand scale of epic proportions that would blow back that top of the mountain to bits. Ah--then again, he couldn’t. 

But then he thought that he could. But he knew he couldn’t. But in theory, he could. But it was as if his thinking organ would be the master today, as it forced himself to believe he couldn’t. Then again, what was stopping him from doing it? But his thinking organ reminded him that it was the one stopping him. But then he realized that nothing was truly stopping him. But then his thinking organ reminded him that it was there, and it, in fact, had an omniscient and dictatorial rule on his majestic regime, and it would command him and it indeed had the controlling power to stop him. Then again, he wondered if that was even true, or perhaps one of those thinking organ issues his health-spreader had warned him about that was important to understand when was a time it would be affecting him. But then his thinking organ assured him that it was not.

And that was why he would never advance past his anthem state. For, if you would know, this man was right all along and he was in that state in which a thinking organ issue was affecting him. However, the reason for his unawareness--his obliviousness--to this state was the simple fact that his thinking organ stopped him from being able to recognize it. He was limited--more precisely trapped--in his own fantasy of perfection. And the officer would begin to get annoyed. 

“Hey,” said the ranger man in the funny hat (in the man’s eyes). That’s what the pal-callers always said, and this was the reason that the man deemed this alien so. Yard--hardy har har--yes and yes that’s what they would bless. “Pal, I hate to make this clear to you, but you are disrupting this so-called perfect environment we have at this estate. For example, before your shenanigans there was a perfection in mood. I took a glance around and saw that, for what it’s worth, every pal around was in their clothing that the standards of public affairs want them do comply by--and they do so without question due to the naturalness of it.”

“Ah, yes. This reasoning is quite the reason I don’t like to reason with a reasoner. And that affects the perfection in mood how?”

“When the clothing is intact on the pals, it ensures a state of transcendence from naked hooligans to beings of power. As well (the sentence ended there, he never said this) as, this allows us to understand which pals we have under our mind-controlling brainwash and which ones we do not. This allows us to depict a picture in which the outcasts who do not have the standard clothing are easy to spot and will not be allowed to live among us pals, pal. You understand, pal? Pal. Anyhow, this allows to dictate our oppressive standards, limiting these pals, pal, to a state which governs them on their clothing, in which case deems that we have power over them.”

“And that is how it affects the perfection in mood.”

The man punched him with all his force. Blood gushed out in firehose sprays. Teeth--the officer’s--they flew in every direction. The amount of force--unbelievable. So much that his head ripped off from its hinges and his cellular vessel blew back a long distance. Best part was--no pal-callers saw it.

Rewind. “Yes, officer. I understand. Yes, officer, I will stop.”

Running--the very same action the man did next. The officer, annoyed, would exhale in an exasperated state and follow suit. Once again within each other’s presence, his scolding would begin. The man knew scolding was what would begin--there would be nothing otherwise. Of course, this officer did not know how to differentiate, which was why he was a standard potato. A pal-caller. He did not know how to, in a perhaps, very pal-caller way, put an outstretched limb around his shoulders and say, “Good old buddy.”

Therefore this time the words did not reach the man’s hearing organs. Instead, he was screaming. Loud enough to shake the rock-ball, to produce thunder in the skies, to initiate colossal waves in the oceans, to create titan quakes on the plates, to conjure destructive whirlwinds of might, to start enraged flames in the forests, to induce flares of solar energy onto the lands. 

Now this depressed him--if the officer was an anthem-holder, he would understand and pretend. He would look around himself now and wonder how he would escape the raging disasters of naturalness. He would ask the man for help, or mercy, as it was his doing. If only he was Cecil, his first love (he perhaps had one before, did he?). Yes, how he missed such non-cold hands. And, to add to that, her vocal cords never had an unsweet pitch that descended down to the underworld and instead lifted into the heavens--din was something she was completely unaware to.

“Once upon a time I told a man to stop disrupting the perfection in mood,” the officer, pal-calling him as usual, would say. “Pal.”

“Listen, officer,” began the man. Then he realized--pointless, it would be. To have to explain, in his very best detail, about the earthquakes and tsunamis. This was--for a very simple reason actually--and it involved unperson-sameness. How complicated it was to explain and he never would. A lifetime of forever would have to happen first--sentience force of a person creature did not support that clock-tick frame. But he realized that his options were limited--and they would always be--haunting that ghost manor. They were not the same--never would be, and so he would never completely understand.

And if he did, that would be an embarrassment--to have a pal-caller intrude on his and Cecil’s esotericism group. Missed--oh, how he missed that young, female, mature collection of cells. That creature--he was drawn to--she was a magnet--literally with the iron in her blood. When he had first seen her, of course his built-in evolution and wiring of his thinking organ willed it so--like this: he paid attention to her figure and how delightful it was first, and then second the top of her vessel and the way her thinking organ dictated her movements and actions. The top of her vessel had strands of light-brown in a braided tail of pony, with curly side bang strands on the sides of her front-head, and impressive optical sensors. Indeed, they were a bright greenish-blue colour. But that figure--that arrangement of cells fashioned themselves in a way--in a certain formation, shape--that would ensure person creatures with the opposite genitals would fancy them--her. In totally, they equaled a her. A consciousness--a living finality of sentience force. But yes, the organic cells would arrange themselves so in that figure--and then suddenly, for no explainable reason, she would become irresistible. A drool-inducer. Prettier than the city of intense-fondness--prettier than even if its landmark triangular tower of Eiffel lit up during the collection of sixty collections of sixty seconds that yielded no solar star above to provide light. And they were only mere cells, which were mere molecules, which were mere atoms, which were mere sub-atomic particles, which were mere--oblivion. Nothing. Empty space. She, for all her glorious glory, was a majority of empty space. Perhaps the hole in his blood pump explained this--no, this, rather, explained the hole in his blood pump, yes. That it was empty space.

The officer was still there, doing his talks. Yes, they would never end, it seemed. Then he remembered something very important--rather, in his eyes. And if he could make it important in his eyes, he could make it important in the officer’s eyes. One of his offspring had mentioned seeing the yaks. He wanted to do that--badly, yes. And so he told the officer.

“Officer, I am in deep trouble right now. I want to see the yaks! This dilly-dallying is pointless if I don’t get to see the yaks!” It was true--for fate had its course. A price for a reward, yet if the clock-ticks ran out it would all be for nothing.

“What are you, pal? A child? I ain’t done with you yet, pal. Pal. Come on pal, all you have to do is cease the existence of your fast-moving legs.”

Jittery--bittery--up and down jumpy--contain it no longer. He had to get out! The yaks! They were in danger! The burning fires were already claiming their poor sentience forces! 

“I have to save the yaks!”

Exhaling was what the officer did next, the man perceived. “Alright. Since you are such a weird version of a pal, pal, I’ll let you go, pal. If I see you move those legs fast again, although.”

“Quite yes, officer. Yes.”

And so he would escape without a scar. Without so much as a cut on his limb, or a bruise on his face-side. That was the way he wanted it--perfection! Now--in top shape he would be to save those yaks. He strolled--although slowly as the officer wanted (in his view of the societal standards of his oppressive regime) to the yaks, where he deemed Paris and his offspring would already be. They had raced--and yet the offspring had won, even if he knew he was ultimately faster and would inevitably beat them. Although not inevitably. Perhaps this was the reason adults did not run like children--an officer would stop them. Meanwhile, an officer would not stop children. 

Unless they were nearby a body of water that person creatures swam in for pleasure. Although unfair, the officer was once a child and he could not understand his reasoning to stop pleasure. And if running nearby a body of water that person creatures swam in for pleasure gave pleasure? What would the officer do then? A danger to their collection of cells, yet, a pleasure as well? What defined more importance?

The officer, by the pal-caller rules, would not leave him alone until the situation was resolved. Why could he not get a turnaround of motivation and say you’re my friend you may go? This was such a simplicity--yes, it was--and so forth the heed of malicious fester. The man--his knowledge of everything in the rock-ball came from foundations in childhood, recognizing faces, words, places. This was how it was built--how that dark and empty and sullen mind would cease to be those things. Yet, this heavily altered and affected his perception of true reality, as it did for all living creatures, who gave them a state of naivety. What a shame--yet so wonderful! Yet so delightful, ah! That was what person creatures called childhood--yet so complicated, so enduring, so blood pump breaking--a lot of work it took. And to understand that it was so completely wrong--that took more work as well. They would never want to follow, though--those pal-callers--for they so heavily believed in what they believe in. And those beliefs rooted from, ironically, childhood. Which, in turn, forged their false beliefs about childhood. Which was why--in the man’s perspective--to be that true symbol of enlightening absolutism, one must not conceive a childhood, in which he had already failed. In fact, this could be connected to the hinderance that was him being birth-given by two preceding person creatures. Also, he could not forget the fact that he was, indeed and in fact, a collection of ordinary person creature cells like everyone else. That, if he could change--would have to be for the better. Robotic parts was a hinderance for, it would, perhaps, hinder his consciousness and therefore put him less on a path to absolutism, the opposite of his desires. It would have to be for the better, as mentioned--and that better could be parts that were neither cells nor robotic nor anything in between or beyond--perhaps something, an element, that was impossible to be created or to even conceive such an idea of, in their current state of infinite outer space. Impossible it would be then--perhaps he should have seen this coming. 

But he refused to believe so, for their position in the cosmos was so specific that how could it not mean anything--that it was specifically this rock-ball out of an endless number, and that it was specifically this one that heeded sentience force, and that it was specifically this one that heeded consciousness, that it was specifically this one collection of cells that made a person creature--him--that wielded this sentience force and consciousness. That it was specifically him that his thinking organ controlled, with all quirks and traits--and that it was impossible to be any less than that for he existed--and it was inevitable to be more than that, yes. Truly.

Then again, the same could be said for all individual person creatures. Even the pal-callers and wake-up-juice drinkers and potatoes--potatoes they all were, anyway. Perspective was what mattered most. Although, the same could NOT be said for them, for he would never know if the truth was they also had a perspective, for the only perspective he could perceive was his own. Therefore, his experience was that he was the only one able to experience, and that he was alone in the rock-ball, the entire cosmos why not put it in there.

It was one time when he was a collection of cells, aged around the same number of clock-ticks as if the rock-ball surrounded the solar star twice, that he remembered much from. Very vividly as well. He had played with Paris--this was unsurprising.

“I am dead,” said the little boy, his eyes shut tight. “See? I am not moving.”

“You can’t be dead, you’re still talking,” said the little girl. “So what really happened?”

The boy forced himself upright and glanced at her. It was there, seeing her optical sensor to optical sensor, that he knew. He knew that his blood pump had fallen into what was known--and what was known to him as well--as a state of love. A state of intense-fondness for something he barely knew. Something unfamiliar, yet so fond of it regardless--it was such a mystery on why. Seeing her little grabber organs, limbs, tiny tails of pig on the top of the top of her cellular vessel. Smiling sweetly and sweetly smiling. 

“What really happened?” asked the little boy. “Gee. I suppose what really happened was that I was not dead, and rather, I pretended. In other words, I had ceased my motion and closed my optical sensors, an action ordered by my thinking organ, with the motivation of having the appearance of being in a state of no consciousness or no sentience force.”

At the dinner table: “Cheers,” said an up of grown. There was some sort of festivity--a celebration of sorts. The little boy looked up at all the up of growns raising a melted-sand liquid holder with their outstretched upper limbs. He said, “I don’t have water. I cannot do this, I cannot participate.” In hindsight, Paris had agreed as well. They played instead. It would be too hard to reach the sink in their little states of early cellular vessel maturity, they understood--to reach the spout that spouted water, or the cooling box that kept their sun-induced ingestion-materials cool or frozen. It would be even more of a challenge to infuse any hydrogen and oxygen particles, yes.

One had to understand this, and this only: the very reality of reality. To bake a cake truly from scratch, one must first invent the universe. The ingredients necessary from the elements of the cosmos would provide the materials, yes--that much was obvious. What would be less obvious was the biology that needed to happen with those chemicals--the reactions that would create a farm-bird, and then its reproduction orbs--which was a main ingredient. And then, the plant that would behold the wheat and the processes--ah, yes, processes, those were important as well--that would make it into flour. In reality--in truth--the reality of reality was that it was reality, and that baking a cake, though seemingly so simple, yes, was in fact one of the most complicated and complex things to do in the universe.

So little many person creatures understood this--and it was because they had no anthem! Bah! They would continue calling each other pals, and they would continue to rely on their wake-up-juice in the sunrise hours, acting as if functioning was impossible without it. And they would continue to have the thinking organ capacity to think as much as a starch-filled plant-food root. 

Saying gee in the memory was another complex reasoning, for it involved history and history of an important man and a cross. That began multiple feudal conflicts ranging practically most of person creature history--at least, the one important to the pal-callers and wake-up-juice drinkers. For there was more history than that--some even preceding their existence, but of course in their superiority complexes--merely because of their perspective--it was not important, it was no matter of importance.

Do you know what he wished he could do? He wished that someone could ask him, “What is five quadrillion, four hundred seventy two trillion, five hundred eighty billion, four hundred thirty seven million, eight hundred fifty nine thousand, two hundred seventy eight times seven quadrillion, nine hundred eighty two trillion, three hundred forty seven billion, five hundred thirty two million, four hundred eighty four thousand, nine hundred seventy five?” and he would just say, “Forty three nonillion, six hundred eighty four octillion, thirty eight septillion, nine hundred fifty four sextillion, four hundred seventy one quintillion, five hundred fifty one quadrillion, eight hundred four trillion, four hundred fifty two billion, six hundred ninety nine million, three hundred forty eight thousand fifty.”

Of course, he could do this--and he did do it--and then he would be that magnificent ultimate transcending gargantuan ruler of a temperate radical triangulated vestigial of a paradigm made of humungous flap poling ninny. Therefore, to remain sanguine in an ennui-filled flawless world and society, the man had to hold himself accountable to the sheer power of the stark in his abilities. In frugal times, and then in complex times--both important and non-important yet that’s what made them important because they were not important and them being important made them not important because that’s why they were not important because they were important. Which explained everything in his own mere fractal view of existence which was a plane that was in the middle of nowhere, he imagined, and that’s what it was and how it would always be as long as his difference was made due to the abacus of his anthem.

“Can we see the yaks now?” said his eldest offspring, using that famous tug on the limb. He said of course, he said we will, he said right now. Cecil had already renounced his gratitude and servitude to the man’s ways of thinking, for finally he understood the desire to see the yaks. 

The man saw the worst of his paradisiacal and idyllic longevous paracosm. Yaks--being taken cared of perfectly, which bothered him. He saw the caretakers and their food preparations and how they groomed the yaks--how they gave it great space that imitated the habitat, how they gave them light that resembled the photons of the outdoors, how they practically created a virtual sameness of the wild. This absolute enraged him! How could person creatures have this ability, this intelligence, to create such wondrous things! How could they trick the yaks into thinking they were not in a simulated environment that was flawlessly regulated by the hands of its creators, their deities, their gods? Those yaks must look up to the sky and see the person creatures and pray to them, sacrifice their young for them (actually, they did that unwillingly), and praise their power! 

The problem with childhood paracosms--therapists are their enemies.

Such detailed imaginary rock-balls--detail after detail--and yet all that is expected of the youngling is to erase it all and live in reality--“You are mad, live in the real rock-ball, you potato.” However how ironic it may seem that it was the opposite and that they were the potatoes for not having the thinking organ capacity or capability to create such a detailed paracosm. This was the advantage the tiny people had over the up-growns. Those adults and their boring boringness, living the same old lives as every other adult before them, full of ennui and no purpose or self-fulfillment because they were forged by the rules of the places they lived in which existed before them, therefore not revealing their true selves--true natures--for the only window one could see was that of when they were children, and of course, that would be long gone, long past--and, destroyed to the rules anyway.

And so that was what he was reminded of when he saw the yaks in their blissful cage of luxury and he wondered if they were to realize they could get out and explore the true wild instead--however no, they were adults. They would never--they would merely agree to the rules of the place they lived in and not argue--their laws. They would rather continue living in this boring state of a universe than use up effort to explore the unknown wild to them, choosing comfort and safety. This, perhaps--now this was what angered him, yes. Not the blissful society or the virtual gods of person creatures who wielded omniscient power over the lesser yak creatures, but the fact that everything and everyone and was oblivious to this utter madness.

A talk--maybe one was needed? Yes. Gulping the oxygen needed to come over to an expert, he would be there in no time and he would be able to speak.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Do the yaks know they are trapped?”

“Pardon myself?”

“I said, do the yaks know they are trapped?”

As if the question was a mind-boggling one--and truthfully it wasn’t at all, it was very simple, although he knew mature person creatures--adults--tended to complicate simple things a lot, she said, “I suppose it depends if they are smart enough. I don’t know fully.”

Now that--that scared him right down to his creamy calcium skeleton--pointless was it to question further for now he knew the truth. That if he and every other person creature on the rock-ball, which at the current time he estimated due to prior knowledge that it would be approximately close to seven and a half billion, were yaks in a cage with superior omniscient deities watching over them in their trapped environment, whilst controlling the environment, they would not know. 

However the difference with this was that the controlling of the environment was irrational, random, full of unexpectedness. Their cage was no blissful environment, no. It could be a death zone or a comfort zone, which depended on another factor that was, in fact, also not controlled by them (person creatures), which was luck. This luck was controlled by fate, and this fate was controlled by luck. 

This was why he felt a deep sadness for the yaks.

Next he had to go--now, which was now, indeed, yes. He realized that perhaps this was a moment of achievement, for he had finally experienced a true emotion--yet he was not prepared for the painful outcome, and he wondered if all outcomes would be painful. Belching vile would grow itself up the inside of the thing that connected the top of his cellular vessel to the mainframe of his cellular vessel. He could not see straight--he could not think straight. The curves came--they impeded the straightness, which was a major error, problem--and one that needed fast fixing--and it would not come if he did not find that Paris.

So he held his blood pump, with the blood pumping--literally, for it oozed out of his chest. And he saw person creatures in his utopia stop and stare, and some even offering their aid--“Are you alright, pal?” but of course in reality not actually did that, for they did not care about an emotion-sufferer, and only when there was a physical-sufferer they cared. 

Paris--for all he knew, she could be on the other side of the entire totality firmament of creation. There was no way of telling, and the possibility remained every second spent that she was not yet found. As long as she was not in his presence--or rather, in that solipsistic view, the window of his thinking organ--then she could very well be on the other edge of creation. But no, there she was! He needed that saving once more--he needed that reality-tethering--he needed that heroism. 

“Are you alright?” she said. She knew that because she was no potato, no pal-caller, and therefore could distinguish or identify an emotion-sufferer as well as a physical-sufferer. She would place her gentle and lovely hands on his blood pump--rather, the skin over his blood pump--and as if she could, for it was badly damaged anyway. She said, “It’s almost as if your blood pump is bleeding and the red liquid is coming out of your chest. That is very painful.”

“Getting out--we need to, now.” He would explain himself later--or perhaps now. “This is a terrible place--by definition one can already deduce that, but I am no creature-lover, no creature saver or creature-sympathizer, no. I am not one to beg for their freedom. But I am one to run from their torment--possibly what I am doing now--and so we better go, now!”

She understood--or he thought she did--but that was all that mattered, if he thought she did or not--and she knew that. So she acted like she did and gathered the offspring and off they went into the abyss of the wild.

In the four-wheeled vehicle--holding his bleeding blood pump as Paris took the reins of the vehicle--slowly fighting the disease terrorizing his inner ness.

“Why,” he said, between raspy breaths, “why can’t I create everything like the caretakers of those yaks, who are enlightened enough to deceive those yaks? Why can I not write a transcript of every possible writing and combination of characters in existence, and no other person creature, whether real or not, can think of something new, something original? For the amount of simplicity in every work of creation I set my sights on, I see that it would have been possible for my being to have been the owner of its creation--if only I had merely thought of it initially. And all the works of greatness in history--of historic times, of modern times both--if one person, me, had been the creator of it all? Wonderful. Yet what would transpire would be the inevitable looks of elsewhere, in which all they would do is find another thing not created by me, but perhaps themselves. That is what I see with the yaks in their cage. However, the yaks never do those looks of elsewhere, for everything created by their masters--the gods of their cage--all the content they made is satisfactory, sufficient, acceptable.”

In his sense--frankly as well as to be honest--was a figurative knowingness that there were no true benefits to being either docile and demure or proud and arrogant. In a strange way both would get you hate. Miner, minor, muskies--he would be hanker sore--extremely as well--to those who were able to repel the thoughts of monism and onism. Those that which he contrived to daily.

Currently--he longed for and remembered the days when as a child he could merely give his mother a toy dinosaur as a gift for the Day for Mothers, and she would be supremely content. In contrast, now in the world of adulthood he was actually required to think of a good gift, as well as give a good gift, and spend those wads of green paper on it to earn the same amount of affection, instead of innocently giving another toy dinosaur. It wouldn’t be the same, no. It wouldn’t.

If this was sadness--then it was. For this depressed him to his very core--and so that optical sensor sweat dripped down his face-sides again and he wanted Paris to hold him--which was, of course, the necessary course of action she needed to take once they were home and the little offspring went off playing. And then naturally for it was deemed to be polite in the natural world, Paris asked him what was wrong and why he was very depressed, and he explained the toy dinosaur and how he wanted to give everyone a toy dinosaur and they would be happy. Perhaps it would have been possible if he was still a small child, yet why could it not be possible when he was the age he was now? What stopped it from being possible?

Sonder--he would be sonder--yes, that’s it! The right adjective--sonder he would be, he would be sonder. He was sonder. For he wondered what happened to every single car in the highway. He wondered how many of them were going to the dentist. He wondered how many of them were going to an office building. He wondered how many of them would get into an accident. He wondered how many of them were visiting family. He wondered how many of them were going home. He wondered how many of them were finding a place to eat. He wondered how many of them were going to shop. He wondered how many of them wondered about where he was going in his own car.

What if he did not have a reason at all? What if, his reason to go out in the highway was to look at all the cars and wonder where they were all going on the highway? Would that be logical? Would that really be insane? And if a soul sister or soul brother was doing the same--much like Cecily--and also went out in the highway just to look at his car and wonder about his destination, and they were just both stuck wondering about each other, never really going anywhere, would that be coincidence or fate or something more or what? Would that be a clash of everything in the universe or a mere practicality of nothingness and confusion--its literal state? Would that be a destined reason for the man to marry the soul sister or soul brother, right then and there, or would it just be a nonsensical omen that hinted at nothing--its literal state? Would that be, for all reasons unexplainable, for all the tears in the rock-ball, for all then and there, for all here and now, for all things everything and anything, be the very epic moment of the epitome of ultimate transcendence into sublime absolutism and enlightenment?

Perhaps no. It would not be logical--yet what in the rock-ball was logical? Even logic was flawed by being logical--and there would be those paradoxes and tensegrity and time wormholes. And those questions such as what was on the other side of the barrier between all of existence--the universe that was known--and nothingness? So he would anger and cry and yell about his anger and cry and then have a deep sadness only explained by not explaining it at all. 

“Hello, I am the tether and you must remember,” said Paris. “That there is much more--by definition, much less, in fact--to this rock-ball to perceive than the possibilities extending it, what’s out there--and perhaps you never considered that living a simple sentience force would actually be harder, as well as have more content, than the opposite? That those potatoes on the streets actually see more to their existence plainly because they do not waste so much time pondering about it? Oh, how heavenly they must be to live in bliss, you say, when one can be them but be you at the same time, and I can teach you--for I have experience in it, you see, for I am one of that type of person creature which I just mentioned to you--and I have the capacity to live alternating between the two rock-balls, for you see I am vastly complex and not one-sided, and I can be on two sides yet being on one side at a time, and you see you can too if you take my hand.”

It was possible, yes. He would be lying if he said he considered that theory once--yet the bothering mostly came from the misuse of her last word. However a ticking time-bomb did not wait for anyone--so he shall do as she commanded, requested--and then make her content by satisfying her--whether in a literal and physical sense, or mental sense, and yes those putrid and vulgar thoughts came to him again in that moment--yet he rejected them quickly for his thinking organ was set on finding out profundity was an aspect overrated by many and from now on he would live as if--no, he could not do that. No, she was wrong--they were all wrong! He would never stoop so low to be a potato--to be one of them! Yet he knew he was wrong--yet he knew he wasn’t, and he hated himself for it--yet he knew he didn’t hate himself, for he valued himself higher than any being on the entire plane of existence everything existed in--yet he knew that wasn’t true, and he had Paris, and he hated her for that. Yet he knew he didn’t hate Paris, he had an intense-fondness for her, that was fact--yet sometimes he knew it wasn’t fact, such as a moment after an argument, and he hated that. Yet he knew he didn’t hate that, for perfection was not reality and what was reality was that arguments did indeed happen, and he knew that, and he hated that. Although he didn’t hate it for he knew they would help, in a way, strengthen a bond, yet he did not want to strengthen a bond. Yet he knew that wasn’t true, and he wanted to, but he acted like he did not want to, and he even believed he did not want to, and that was all that mattered. 

“Perhaps I will put effort into my thinking organ to conceive thoughts about it,” said the man, “and perhaps I won’t. What will you do in either scenario? Will you punish me, will you leave me? Will you not leave me?”

Imperial insignias and emblems of ensigns, blasphemous theoretical production of particles. Fast forward, and the man knew how to contain himself when unconfined, and confine himself when contained. If he’ll be the lights that sweep above and below, then late was the work of the hefty show. 

That feeling of listlessness. That feeling of unduly. That feeling the entire rock-ball would continue without you, to some degree, and will not feel misplaced or lacking. That feeling that when your optical sensors close for the final time, cars will still move and leaves will still blow. That feeling of not being a part of something that you could have been a part of--but not--and the feeling that everyone else is as apart as you. That everyone is unaware of everyone’s insecurity while being insecure. That feeling that there would be no change--no point, daresay--if you joined or not for everyone that did join or not would end up in a coffin sometime in the future anyway. That the most powerful on the rock-ball would also submit to that everlasting and all-encompassing coffin, the one that none could surpass--overpower, destroy--emitting that same persistence as the very best but yet not managing to exceed that barrier of biology. A shame. 

And then that feeling of anguish at having no anguish. That feeling of ennui and true falseness. That feeling of bursting with burst-less-ness. Existing on a plane that cannot even fly--the engines don’t hum, when they should--and that the existence plane would crash soon and all would end. That all was for nothing due to that end. That the end was due for nothing because of that all. 

And this grand myopia of his--it would be his demise. He knew so for the value at which he had secured the future seconds of his sentience force, which had to be done every second, much like suggested--it would all never defeat that darned myopia. The selected subject of the previous sentence was his anthem, you see. The one that fed off The Realness of Everything from the Ancient Knowingness. And, you see, it was not just the sea monster or unsuspecting, dull yaks that aimed for his demise. There were perhaps countless things. He could need a cure for every thing. There were no explanations for his mauerbauertraurigkeit, or his nighthawk. There were no substantial ones for his liberosis or monachopsis either. None could even be said for his lachesism, ellipsism, catoptric tristesse, ellissi.

Then--that final feeling of unbeatable--of not being it but of being not it. The simple fact that the best was reserved for the best--and it was saddening to never join them, and then what next to focus on--enjoyment? And then he would proclaim the good old days to be the days, old and good--yet in the future his present moment would be included, and so he thought that perhaps the moment now was the good old days--and he shall not impede that recollection, no. Then the future would also become the good old days--for the future always became the past. The good young days. 

But in his days--one of them in particular--he met this girl named Paris, and yes she was lovely. His first thoughts were to introduce her to his offspring, perhaps as a potential actor in place of a literal birth-giver--and that wasn’t truly impossible, he didn’t think, no. And it went like this: she said hi. He said hi back.

“Hi,” said the boy.

“Hi,” said the girl.

Then--reprimanding his memory--unfaltering his sole cannon of a mind, unpredictable, powerful--he created what was next (although already created). Originality triumphs. And what happened next? Ah, yes--the friendliness. Then slam! He was awoken by a powerful grabber organ. And when his senses came back--well, his senses came back. Truly they did.

“You know me,” said a voice he had heard all these years. It was fighting through droplets from her optical sensors. “Wake. The expert in person creature biology and mentality listed many of your unfixable flaws, but amnesia was not one of them.”

Indeed. And so he said thank you--and this time he meant it--he never did, no. In fact, since he never did, and he wanted to keep that streak of being the same, he angered. And this, in turn--made Paris understand. She always did, and that was obvious by now, to anyone who would know--and if you know you know. However, he exclaimed this as an important exception, excluding it from that streak--for the speciality of Paris was high. How she could make such an inclusion such an exception. And it boggled his thinking organ on how she could, but she could. And she did. And she did dislecherously. 

Truly--it did require such an astute mind to comprehend these types of things--to understand it all--to even make sense of any of it, jubilously--terra tear tear jubilee, first one crying, second one ripping. 

He remembered, though, how seemingly simple times used to be--and he did so with a vision of Paris’s hair. Yes, there was something different about it, a quality that he knew, perhaps, and it was strange. It was grey!

“Oh no,” said Paris. “We are getting old.”

These two in their starry road past and crossed in eyesight--blurry lines, weary blurs, lining wears, it was all coming together--yet it was all coming apart. His children--they were so old--how did they get this old? When did they get this old? He merely put his eyelids over his optical sensors for one nanosecond! As the days went by, it became harder to remember where he was from--where his roots were. How did he start? Oh yes, in a small town where it rained a lot, an angry mother (now gone) and a little girl that bounded up the steps of their home to greet him with a gift. How did he get here? He thinks to himself, he’s so old, he’s still so unwise, he’s come so far yet gone nowhere at all. He’s done nothing in his sentience force, he’s accomplished nothing much, a humble one, truly--and he’s the owner of three offspring in a different city! All of a sudden, this was it--this was when he would scream--breakdown was imminent, steadfast, and perhaps above all unstoppable--so he had forgotten, then. He had gone to the zoo and his offspring were there yet they were not there--hallucinations from a hallucinogen yet no hallucinogen was present, which was ultimately strange but not unexplainable--perhaps Paris was right about having to listen to the expert at human biology and mentality? He saw apparitions of his younglings, yet he knew where they were--on their own paths now, in the postsecondaries and maybe with their own Paris’s or Devan’s (he wished they told him so he could approve of them), and maybe even with their own homes--maybe even with their own offspring! How could he have missed all this? How long has he been gone? How long has it been since the beginning of his sentience force--and most importantly, how long did he have to go? 

How long did Paris have to go? How little or much will he see of his offsprings offspring? How little or much will he see of Paris? How little or much will he see the light of day, or the dark of night, or the heavy rain and the thunder’s spite? How little or much will he know of what to come, blocking his sentience force like a blight? Without a might, he would see to his fright, no end in sight--yet it was there, he knew. Everyone knew. Perhaps not at the very start, but eventually, everyone will know. And then comes the wave of nausea--unstoppable. 

And so back to the past it would be, yes. It felt ever since their leavings, things were moving faster--escalating of sorts. Only now it was slowing down.

“I hate you!” shouted Dalia. And on cue the boom of thunder--and abstract was the thorns and blunder. And she would get down with droplets in her optical sensors--not to beg or plead, not to him or to some powerful deity, but for herself because she was weak under the influence of such high authority--authority that didn’t in fact, have any power to be truthful--and so he would do the folding of his upper limbs. She wanted to go--she wanted to have that so-called “fun” that he was not familiar with, ever--she wanted to be with the person creatures closer to her age she deemed more applicable to have that so-called “fun” with. She promised not to inhale any of those harmful substances, she promised not to do anything that would be enough to disrupt that peace and bliss of connection between her and him known as trust, a form that was so delicate that any amount of dissonance would destroy it and take a squadron of thousands to repair the giant structure. 

The girl--she realized soon enough that authority did not come with power. And she also realized that she had no restraints without his presence. She came back that night broken in his arms, and he wanted to stab her with a knife--although under the influence of those substances he doubted she would feel it--and oh, how bad he wanted to throw her off the edge of the universe! Oh, how bad he wanted to abandon her in the streets!

But he didn’t. He discerned, too, that not just he didn’t--he didn’t want to. And he didn’t know why. But he did--and Paris had taught him about it many, many times. Of course, he hadn’t listened--he had to learn for himself what she was talking about. But it was only in this moment that he knew he had what it took to claim that feeling--that so-called and famous feeling that every person creature longed for, whether their own offspring or a partner to create offspring with--that feeling that only person creatures know, which transcends all other creatures, creatures that can never familiarize themselves with it. He realized why that night--he did not disown his offspring Dalia, so drunken in her own mistakes--he realized why that night--he did not hurt her at all. He picked her up. He carried her to her sleep conductor. He tucked her under the sheets. That was what he did instead.

She was half-awake when she saw him doing it. When she did, tears began to fill her optical sensors. The man hushed her quietly, for she needed the rest. Then she whispered, “Thank you, Dad. I… I need you. I love you.” Optical sensors half-closed.

He was jarred, of course--he had never heard that before. He had heard his name too many times to not be not surprised at this--he expected Cosmos, no less. As well, the phrase itself was very disorienting, nauseating, uncomfortable. So his eyebrows were raised. And there it was--that feeling, that strange feeling--the one that always came during times like these. By some mysterious and supernatural force of nature, he was compelled to say, “I love you,” back.

And he did.

That was when he felt it would be necessary that his life shalt not cease right there--that was the first time that he thought if he had that choice, perhaps this time he would pick the one that allowed the continuation of his sentience force. And not just for him. He realized it wouldn’t be about him, it never was, and it would never be. He realized it would be for her, who slept on the sleep conductor peacefully, apologizing like a madwoman nonetheless in her dreams. Yes. It would be for her that he would continue his sentience force. As if it was his in the beginning--as if he had control and owning over it, when it was not taken by him--it was given to him by a birth-giver a long, long, time ago. He had no right. 

And she would need him there anyway. No matter how many times she would yearn or go through with another mistake, that was his role--this was his duty. She would fall again. And again. And he needed to catch her. If he wasn’t there in these primal and important times? She will suffer. He needed to catch and catch and catch--until she didn’t need him to catch anymore. And hopefully it would align with the ending of his sentience force--and hopefully it would align the moment she has her own offspring that she needed to catch. That was how this rock-ball worked. 

Down the drain, stream, river--flowing through the past away and keeping afloat the castaways. Next was his male offspring, son--who he deemed so like his female birth-giver, mother. Their alikeness, astounding--and so complex was it that it seemed the opposite of alikeness, rather, a copy, but an original copy. Like how one can rise down or fall up. And one always thinks the world becomes cold when they turn old, and none can be bold, or so it was told. It was this idea they sold, and along with it they rolled.

It was then and there--he said that he was having trouble with this four-wheeled monster of a vehicle, that others seemed so effortlessly in control of. He wondered why it looked so easy to tame the beast when it was not--at least, for him. 

“I can’t do it,” said the boy. His precious boy. And he could see that now, after all the previousness before this, previously before.

“You oughta try,” said the man. “And you may ask why. It’s because you can.”

“How can you say so?”

“My, Cecil.” And he told him why. Wisdom--he had it--and although he didn’t believe it at first--belief was all he had now. He told him that there was a simple reason, a simple explanation--he told him that the strongest heroes are what they are not because they never fail, but because they fail many times, but still get back up. The countless encounters with death only push them back on their feet rather than the expected outcome--and situations arise out of the nothingness of situations--creativity arises from the lack of nothing creative--originality comes from the lack of originality, for if there were no pieces of art existing in the rock-ball, any piece would be art. Standards--they were not created yet. 

So, the boy pulled himself off the ground. He contained his patience as a firefly in a bottle, full of energy--and he positioned his grabber organ on the wheel of steering. And he tried again.

It didn’t matter if he failed again--and he did. Any dramatic story like the opposite would be fictional, with itself screaming out loud that it was indeed, fiction. It didn’t matter because he would try again. Then--fail again. Yet try again. 

Once again, there came his beam--so wide, his skull chompers were visible. His duty fulfilled once more--elevating his sense of ratchet and wretched and racked and wrecked and--and--once again reminded, that down the drain, stream, river was all that awaited next. It came. Yes, it did.

Clearly--visualizing it once more, very clearly. Old was Violet--enough sun-surrounds that the man allowed the girl to choose a future offspring partner. Unhappy he was with the one she chose--truthfully, all who owned offspring would be, for it would be a practicality that one would be merely handing--giving--her away. But this chosen one was ruthless. 

The boylessness-holder--his boylessness-holder--came back with those dreadful droplets and marks, always--always those marks! She refused, naturally, to utter a single vocal chord vibration about them--yet they vibrated powerfully anyway by the immense number of droplets speeding down her face-sides. It would take a fool to be unable to determine the person creature responsible for such vile actions.

Alright. He would not do it for this female creature, then. He will do it for himself, for he did not want his carpet wet with that flood of droplets. Yet he knew this would be in vain--for in and at of itself--all of itself--was truly about this girl. It was. Yes, he knew it, yet he hated that he did and pretended it was not. But being for someone, this activity would be, was for this girl.

“Where are you going?” asked Paris. Worrisome--her tone. As she held her dear offspring in her gentle, caring, upper limbs. Wept she did--she continued and it was long. 

“The bullies of that day,” said the man, reminding her. Oh yes, she was reminded enough, he knew. “In a mirror attempt, I shall do so once more. I will smite that pal-caller troglodyte asunder.”

Doing it no less--that was not expected from such a man, you should know. His sea monster would love this! His sea monster must be salivating tremendously at the current moment--he must! He knew so, he could feel it, an insatiable hunger. The anthem spoke again, as it always did during times such as these: Your reviving, quivering, weltering quake; do what you must with all that’s on stake. Pound to oblivion this grieving sinner; all the merrier and merrier thinner. His contriving, shivering, festering blunder, smite the pal-caller troglodyte asunder! Oh, he would. Definitely, definitively, it shall be done--it shall be done, yes!

He liked to think this was some perilous misunderstanding--he liked to think such cliche was impossible. He liked to think he would rather chum up with this hefty wielder of tastelessness, analyze the alpha mindset--and then? And then would he finally have that Ancient Knowingness? Possibly not--potentially not--hold, certainly not. All he did, anything he did, all he would do was for that precious intelligence of the infiniteness and this would not grant him that.

But it would grant it for her.

This, he knew, mattered--it is what matters, it was what mattered, it will be what matters, it would be what mattered. The window was slim, too--if he did not know about this matter, this piece of matter of a collection of cells, if he did not act upon this very present moment--this moment so special and so singled out of the many others in the entire existence of all parallel cosmos? Violet would suffer. He learned with his middle offspring Dalia long ago that how this so-called famous connection of intense-fondness worked was that when one suffered, the other suffered--and therefore, per se, when Violet suffered, he suffered. The burdening weight of the sky on his shoulders, never before. Oh, indeed--yes, this truly mattered.

So there it was--there it would be, in an unnamed, secluded spot. He exited his vehicle. He bounded out of it. His optical sensors locked onto the hurter. And with his sock, no thrashing occurred--during the inevitability of the moment, in that very instance, he said, “Don’t touch my third offspring again.” And boy, did the boy listen--he did for the power of the attack was monumental as it was symbolic--and he bled not just the red liquid (that the man was happy to see) but those dreaded droplets on the face-sides and his egotism, his esteem for himself, his dignity. And though altruistic the man was after the deed--unfinished business would be all it would be if he did not embrace that very same third offspring.

The purple flower did it anyway--he liked that he was not the one to do it, perhaps he had an ego of his own--and, she would not let go. That was fine with him. He would not let go either. There was an endless stream of silence and he opposite-despised that, for he agreed wholly for the opposite-necessity of words. Of language. For what was language? Truly--he found out now, truly--that it was anything, and this could be it, perhaps. Nay, he thought, not perhaps--the completeness of perhaps. Perhaps without all the doubt--which was certainty. For his first, second, and third offspring--Cecil, Dalia, and Violet, he was a father for all three. Only those in the know truly understood that prideful feeling. So immense--indescribable--so powerful that there was in no possible pathway of time parallels that he would end his sentience force. Now, he would not. And not ever. Though it transcended the physics laws of everything, he knew--somewhere out there, all his multiple, past, or future versions of himself, all those men, did the same he did--and did not take that other foolish route of self-death.

For now--present day--he was offspring-less, he was unsheltered by their warmths, their holding-ups, their sweetness and poison and all things in between nonetheless, with lots of none and less the none. Ah yes, it would be call this time here and call this time that--never come, always call--and it would be an update, never a talk about important matters such as The Realness of Everything or anthems or--well, or anything actual. Anything grounded--anything down-to-rock-ball, anything real, perhaps. No doubt they were on their own--he hated that, he hated himself for hating that as well. He had changed so much since he was that little boy--yet felt the same--yet wasn’t--yet was. Yet wasn’t. The literality of the subject--that’s what it depended on. But the change was indeed substantial--enough to make himself believe that it could be enhanced even further.

And the dwelling! Oh, the dwelling--it was so silent. This eeriness was something he was used to before, but seldom now--and that was part of that change previously mentioned. But now every tick and every tock was a volcanic eruption--and every breath was a firecracker. Of course--calming down would be all it would ever do when Paris spoke.

He saw it in her optical sensors--the doubt of doubt. The merciless cold of the loneliness and then the merciless cold of the winter snow. Yapping down and up were all the favourite activities of the pals and now they were forced to listen. Especially those seasonal songs--those bright lights. 

An evening. Solitary and dark.

“Would you…” But she wouldn’t. Finishing what he started was a necessity though, and he learned that through many experiences of acting as a pal-caller. It was trite--yet needed all the same. “Would you like to throw snow at each other as we did so before?”

She did not answer--and he felt that--she did not need to answer to answer. Silence was always an answer. No need to literally answer to figuratively answer. And he rested his own mood on her--for the question was mellow yet hollow--did one really think he meant it? No, he did not--and he did not want to. For white-cloud kingdom’s sake--the strands on their scalps were grey! And though the in-between the shades of black and white was inevitable (from their biological standpoint, which was personalized, and that was something all person creatures knew, and sometimes even fought conflicts over it), and the tiresomeness was also. 

“I miss them,” said Paris. “I want to hold them as I did before. I want to teach them as I did before. I am all but useful now--that was my destiny, I perceive. I was meant to teach--perhaps it wasn’t yours, but you know my role as well as I do. I am a tether, I am a guide. And you must find your own now, too, as I said many times before. The anthem?”

The man nodded. “Wild as before, as any day. Yet so pleasant. I don’t know if it has always been pleasant and I only find its pleasantness now, or the versa. Vice, it is, for me to use it, for when I do, the everything-ness comes. It may hurt person creatures.”

“I know it well.”

“That is a fact. I must say, such danger in the face of adversity and such adversity in the face of danger is a have that must be a must. And left in the dust. Yet at the same time dusted.” The man aimed his optical sensors at the white semisolid dihydrogen monoxide through the melted sand. He could say he was changed now--there were things he was compelled to do that he did not resist anymore--perhaps they were always natural and he had always resisted, perhaps not. But he did not fight these urges--and for one, exampling, was now--he placed an upper limb around Paris.

He knew she would deem it strange. He observed her creasing small-hairs above her optical sensors--yet felt the intense fondness radiating from her anyway. She said, “My, oh, my.” And accepted it nonetheless. She wrapped her head around his upper-limb joint, and she held the grabber organ of his upper limb around her. “Those were the days. They were.” Then silence.

When he was sixty, no more were the blissful days, the bygone days--and no more longer were the absence of cries. This was a revolution. Hemming and stemming--polygons now in vision, rather than the endless combinations that they could be--that could describe their edges.

Art--more particularly one of sorts that were considered by many traditional and concise--both in practicality and appearance. A piece that involved a multitude of coloured liquids of the spectrum, and more--all smeared into a piece of art with a tool that had a defining feature of tiny strands at its end that soaked up the coloured liquids and placed them down, soaking whatever it was placed down on. He saw one--at a museum of art, and something in his cognitive functions exploded, for when he feasted his optical sensors on it, he was so astounded that his blood pump began to race faster, his vision blurred, and his anthem was boisterously unforgiving in its terror--which was, to be fair, continuous rather than periodic, yet only this time was it so horrifying, he wanted to kill that woodpecker on his skull--he’d rather have an albatross. 

It was so beautiful, so extraordinary--at least in his sense of point of view of sense--that he palpitated and vibrated uncontrollably--so without control that attention was beginning to be drawn, and one knows how much he hated attention--and it was the lack of it he hated, as well as the lack of the lack of having it, he hated. But now was not a time to rejoice for how it now appeared, for it was a dysfunctional time, and not a celebratory time. He recognized his own inner functional biological pieces failing under his command--they outright refused to follow orders from his imperial thinking organ that thought so sublime of itself that now its arrogance was being a downfall never considered by its own egotism, and translucent the tremendous tyrannical tiresome trolley--transpire and transcribe that thrashing throne--telecommute them told their delicacy. 

The pal-callers and the wake-up-juice drinkers all foretold this coming at some point in their sentience force that they laid their optical sensors on him. What a man that would fall--they thought--what a man so high up in his sun-surrounds, that this was inevitable! In fact, they screamed out those opinions--the ones they held so fondly of, and thought themselves so highly of for them--now. 

“Oh my, an attack on the blood pump!” said one.

“Aye, this be it. This be the very end,” said another.

“Someone get this man some help,” said a third.

NO! Did they not understand? It seemed they never understood! They never would! This was no attack on the blood pump--this was no mere mortal decay--this was an act of tyranny by his own thinking organ, which powered his blood pump to sing that anthem louder, enough to trigger an explosive fury in his thinking organ, which was a cycle that repeated itself for it fed itself, yes--and it was all because of that piece of art, which he looked so longingly at now. It was so immensely beautiful--his thinking organ could not withstand it--how it testified to be a harbinger and representative of all things within and without of life itself and all its very aspects. The rock-ball itself and all its very aspects. How complex and complicated and vastly superior the rock-ball was to one’s own thinking organ--yet not! The thinking organ has enough capacity to take in all of what the world can offer, making them equals. It had the capacity and ability to understand the universe, which made them equals. Numerous rock-balls can exist within a single thinking organ--if it was imaginative enough, and contained enough power, such as his. And these rock-balls could arguably be substantially more kingly than the real one.

Paris--though not the first to see his outcry of vast inner pain, the first she was to help. She ordered furiously for a pal-caller or wake-up-juice drinker to signal the hospital for a ride. She held the man gracefully, as if the man would die--she would die. He supposed this was another one of those moments that could be explained by that so-called love that he never understood. Intense-fondness was a hard thing to understand though, and countless would agree--therefore, he did not think it, for he did not want to agree with those countless--those potatoes were never right, and even if they were, he would gladly be wrong to spite them.

“Was it the anthem?” asked Paris. She knew. She always knew.

He answered yes. As she looked at him, he looked at her--that face he had known all his sentience force, so lively--so pure. It was so perfect--what he saw in his vision now--that he wished a snapshot feature of his thinking organ would suffice, for memory was not enough--it was never enough, it would never be enough. But the beauty of what he saw in the window of his optical sensors currently was so powerful--a face that cared for him and wanted nothing but for the continuation of his sentience force--that he couldn’t stand it! That he couldn’t take it! That another panic was coming! 

“Crikey all this and that! What has gotten into this system of yours--how reckless and insubordinate a blood pump can be! Oh, my sweet--nothing but blame on the pump of red liquid of yours.”

No, she was now beginning to see what all the pal-callers and wake-up-juice drinkers saw, and that was a mistake! There was no failure of the blood pump--what had happened was that his thinking organ merely failed to comprehend or register the absolute beauty of what his vision withheld--it failed to understand how such beauty existed, how it was possible, how it was even applicable to reality--and she would have been flattered had she not so uselessly ignored his signs--his signs that he knew he would not end his sentience force today--not now, hopefully not ever--and hopefully never when Paris’s breathing organs still had the ability to draw in air. 

He was in control--that was not the truth yet he always knew, all his entire existence, that he could believe in what he wanted to believe, and make it the truth--therefore, indeed, he was in control of these foolish organs--he could choose to make his blood pump go if it stopped--he could choose to make his thinking organ go if it failed. It was his body--now that was a slimmer of truth he could use to deal with--and a slimmer was all he needed. 

The experts of human biology, rather, the ones that worked with them (that knew how to drive vehicles to their institute exceptionally well, as it was their duty), came quickly. The man saw in the air a giant clock, as big as the natural satellite in the night sky that reflected the sun’s light--that read a countdown. It was moving fast--wailed, that’s what he did as a reaction--it moved faster than he wanted to. He knew what the countdown was for. It was the very same one that these pal-callers carrying him to the vehicle were racing against, thought they could not see it the way he did. They may be non-potatoes due to their high expertise and intelligence in this certain field--the field of maintaining the existence of precious, sweet, precious sentience force--yet they were still anthem-less. 

Paris would come--that was her promise when he boarded the ride and he could no longer see the massive clock in the sky. “I will be there for you when the time comes--and the time comes depending on the time of arrival--they are directly correlated--so I hope the time comes soon.”

“I do too,” said the man.

“Very well. I hope for you to be on a behaviour that will not reject their guidance.”

Farewell the farewells--tricked one might be at the meaning of that, for no farewells would be made--he knew he would end up seeing her again--much less see the light of day again--for his sureness in such uncertainty was impressive--a peaceful and flawless rock-ball he lived in, remember? There was no way this was it--arrogance, this wasn’t it, more so, it was faith. Faith and certainty. The summit of all person creature kind.

Off they went to the valley of health--due to the misinterpretation and misconduct of the traipse and apparition of benevolent stalkers--around the hound--strung through the grungy chord of the umbra of doubt, sped through the booming wreck. He valued all the Paris’s walking around him--Paris here, Paris there--hold, why so many? They all pretended they were not her, but she was her--the one carrying the electricity injector, the one fixing up a syringe, the one giving orders. The disguises of the health suits was a valid excuse to think of themselves hidden, yet he knew who was who--if it came down to Paris--anytime and anywhere. And this was no metaphorical state of mind or opinion that was only a factor of the true truth--this was outright literal, and he could not express that more. And he would not stop saying her name--although they did not mind, for when they asked where he was from, he said her name, and they did not find it odd. However, he found that odd that they did not find it odd.

He was not wounded--he was not hurt. Oh, the elegance of such non-elegance! Yet they somehow thought this was all necessary. He said, “My, Paris gentle on the fixings, whatever those fixings may be.” 

It seemed the Paris’s ignored him, perhaps acknowledging it in silence--or thinking of a man of delusion? As if they would--they were Paris. 

Then the giant clock in the sky moved faster and faster. He could not see it but he could feel it--and feeling it was enough. It was all it took. And the feeling was that it was moving faster and faster. But he could not see it go all the way--for suddenly it jumped to an extremely forward time and he did not see anything in between. His clothes had been switched, the Paris’s were gone, and the star that blocked all other stars with its immense light (due to being the optimal minimal distance) was out.

Truly, it was a strange and vital experience--rejuvenating all the less, and all the more. Worrying--that was all Paris did more of now since then. He liked to wonder why, but he knew why--then he liked to think he had a massive amount of intelligence because he knew why. Yet he knew he didn’t. Yet he knew he did. Yet he didn’t. Yet he did. Yet he didn’t.

Yet he did. Yet he didn’t. Yet he did. Alrighty was the sunshine and the glossing tardies--and it was indeed filled with tardies. Laminating crosswalks and crossways and cross-paths. Two valid and the latter-est not. Letterset yes. Like that. 

As if he had anything else to say to this so-called ‘precious’ sentience force of his. A blank--his mind, and he could not make it not a blank. He thought he had already done so, and it all started from the beginning of his universe--yet not so much, it seemed--it was still very blank. As blank as a blank, and a blank was very blank.

Could he take any more of it? He supposed--he, he--he could. He knew he could. That was how the nature of these creatures with smart thinking organs worked. They valued this force as much as they did their forces--and a repeat of one thing already said, done so--but not as feasible or reasonable as the second time. Agree? But freeways lashed only when free--way to them. Wayfarers and their shenanigans.

So hard it was to denote this special type of lost in a world and fantasy that only extremely-skilled artists were able to achieve--this was an underrated form of talent. The transformation of lives through means of creative production. He was not one of those, no. He doubted if he would ever be. He had tried--many times--and failed. He had failed--many times--and tried. It was not a subtle rise with a fascinating idea needed, no--it required the innate or acquired ability to pack in magic inside pages--to facilitate all aspects of real sentience force and made-up ones, and carry a bottle filled with emotion that was ready to be drunk. There was no simply describing enough of these types of special feelings and one had to dive into them--inverse was this definition of active belonging. One could only feel in a certain rock-ball when in that rock-ball, and the best way to make them in that rock-ball was to put them in it through the shoes of someone actually in the rock-ball. Which was, hard by definition--yet so many think it not, and therefore so many fail.

There was no use for a fantastic idea if the ability to spread it was not as fantastic. No use for one’s great idea if that one’s ability to spread it is not so great. 

This was saddening, discouraging, upsetting--somber in tune with the line of these graces that bounded gracefully eternally preposterously poundiogly. Through these factual rarities were conclusions that withered based on the receiver--and my were these receivers heavily biased--they were, yes. This was also saddening, discouraging, upsetting. Although what was change if not for the ability to use it, and its effects on how profound they would be or not at all--wolds for them all if they were so busy in their pickings--their pickings at torture. 

These rantings were all built up due to a passionate lack of passion--all from the cries of talentlessness and unknowingness. Of the low-tries and the high-dies. Of the give-ins and the give-outs and the give-downs and the give-ups. How fair was a system of merit?

A question that must be answered delving into the deep mysteries of existentialism and the meaning of person creature consciousness and purpose--and how the striving for a better sentience force always happened with them--when perhaps it should, well, not? Yes, this was a revolutionary thought, he considered--but he had to bring it to be loud again, to give it a voice--which all came back to his ability to spread an idea. If not so well--if communication was poor, then a try would be not crucial. 

And this, dear looker-downer upon these very words--was his very great message. Perhaps the man had a story so ultimate in profundity, so ultimate in artfulness, so ultimate in ultimateness--but talent equal to a single grain of sand on a beach to spread it. To be able to put it in linguistics on a sheet of paper--to be able to recite its meanings through musical pieces--to be able to show its amazingness as a cinematic masterpiece--to be able to treat it fairly as a simplistic vocal man-to-man talk of experiences. 

But he would try--very now, he tried. And no matter the outcome of such trial--he knew there would be the offenders and the defenders--the outcries of rage and the outcries of purity. The errors and the beauty. The perfections and the flaws. But no matter these dreadful and inevitable outcomes came this one strong belief that this man had--and it was that this man, down to his very core, was a genuine artist. This man was great--in and out of himself--and this man made a true masterpiece.

And that was the end of this anthem-boasting. Containing arrogance--what was that? He had never heard of it. Humility? Never heard of that either. It was of low importance, then, yes--otherwise he would know of it. He knew as long as he held onto this grand idea of an idea--though unsharable as he did not have the capability to make one see its point of view--then he was good. Good to be a lord of all lords, a people of all peoples, and magician that did not reveal secrets (but tried, at the least, in all fairness). 

The pal-callers will say you are not good enough. Meaningful--something you lack. Then the improvement comes--and they say you don’t talk meaningful things so you do. Then the pal-callers will say you are pretentious and saccharine. Then the improvement comes--you change. It’s strongly a different style now. You create masterpieces that transcend all other expectations--you are not pretentious or saccharine yet you are not meaningless and lacklustre. You are not a mindless preacher but you contain passion and blood pump. They will still find ways to destroy the empire you’ve created. They will find reasons. They will create reasons, if they have to. They will find flaws and as you do your best to fix them, fixing them creates more flaws--and then you realize that an opinion is an opinion. That a person creature’s inner personal experience determined these unchangeable beliefs and tastes above all else. A shame, then--you will be unloved regardless, and inevitably.

But you would also be loved regardless. Inevitably.

This--which was a truth--was a mind-skipper that not all comprehended or realized, looking over such importance. This was a fact that many did not see optical sensor to optical sensor for. Conflicts would be fought over the devastating power of opinions, especially on ones so powerful and sensitive--touchy to the max--that some would consider dying for such as the existence of varying deities and the systematic ways of an economy in a regime or nation.

For many--that the ending years of a sentience force was unimportant and not as filled with lots of ness. Truth to be told--excitement was not their highest point, however it was important either way--and the man felt it now in these times of grievance for those younger sun-surrounds. Weaker--his body, he felt it getting it--and it was. He cold no longer do those things he was able to. He could no longer think those things he was able to. Though many more sun-surrounds in experience was he compared to his three offspring, nothing beat the prime of the mind, which was, subsequently and hereby--the currentness, for they were in those postsecondary education centres that they deemed important to help them survive. The man thought however that it was not a certain and absolutely-needed addition to that list to survive. If they knew how to hunt and gather for example. The days when everything was simpler--and there were no changes in the ways the wind blew from the north and south and the levels of water in the vast expanses that held them across the rock-ball. When sustainability was not something that needed to be recovered but something that happened naturally.

How disturbing it was to hear of such things that disturbed him. Things that would be better off left out of his mind--yet so interesting to hear more of. And when left out by a decision he made--would then be accused of being indifferent to such a situation that was very needed to be talked about--situations where silence proved indifference, yet taking a side would prove harm for you no matter which side--these were the pitfalls of person creature kind which forced a trap unto these helpless persons creatures that had no choice but to get harmed. And they did not like it, no--yet they had to show passion in it or else they would die anyway. Such a troublesome thing that many worried about, for such a modern rock-ball deemed it this way, this style--this law. That somehow it was a law--a rule that needed to be followed, yet so jackhammered by nonsense it was. 

It was one day that in the reflection of that tool in the room of bathing that he saw and felt this rather strange but realistic bump near the bottom of his chin, a little to the side, and thought about how it was scary. How scary that it could mean anything--how little it was yet so defining and controlling of his entire existence because of how fragile his existence was. How it made him come to the scary conclusion that he was vulnerable--he did not have indestructible skin--he was a person creature. That was all, yes. That’s all he would ever be. He also had that feeling of repetition, as if a moment such as this had existed in the past--and he knew that this was it. This was what, exactly? This was the beginning of the end--this was the conclusion of his sentience force because signs that showed it were the loss of able-ness in the body due to the aging cellular structures inside such a vessel--a vessel that was so special and unique, it could think things none other vessels of cells could. A person creature vessel. A masterpiece and achievement of evolution. 

But no--typical of him to act so paranoid. It was not--at least, not yet. He knew the time would come--but it did made him scared nonetheless, for how tiny and vulnerable he was. This was an important factor to his style of living, and Paris had noticed. Of course, she always did.

“Is there something wrong?” she said. 

“Yes. No.”

“Ah. I understand.”

She really did, as well. As would anyone--for it was not hard to explain, and in most cases, like this one--it did not need any explanation. It was a thing that was felt--it was not a thing that was expressed, or heard, or spoken about, or smelled, or tasted. And annoying were these nervous sensors for that practicality--that physicality was not the meaning of this man when he said the previous thing--what he meant was it was felt with something necessary to use to feel it--something, perhaps say, a blood pump. A thinking organ would also be executable. 

That perfect sentience force would never be achievable. It pained him to know that, finally, after maturing. Even his created one with the yaks in the north that would battle with the sea monster for ages to come--was an era that merely existed in his yearning imagination. Others--the pal-callers or the wake-up-juice drinkers or potatoes would wish and wonder for something basic. He did not expect any less from the anthem-less. Yet Paris had no anthem and he realized she would long for something similar to yaks such as him--she did not show it, but he liked to believe it. It was true to him, even if it had the chance not to be--even if it contained the smallest possibility it wasn’t true, it was true. And not to him--it was actually true (this is him). 

“Paris, I am rotting!” said the man one day. “I am dead--my skin and my bones are decaying, past the point of no return--which is saddening, I must say, yes. But reversible? No. Will you come here?”

She did, but she saw no such things the man spoke of. “Am I missing something? I realize my ability to perceive the things you say have drastically went down since those olden days.” And yes, she meant perceive and not comprehend, for the man always said things with a picture in mind, not just the verbal-ness itself. Picots and parrots it seemed.

The man--he was genuinely dead. “I am all but literal when I say I am deceased. Help me, my Paris. Although I don’t know what you can do to help, I truthfully say. No, I am surely all but useful now. Sigh and whimper. Grieve--it’s not a necessity but still an option.”

“Why must I? This is a false danger you have inflicted upon yourself. If you truly believe you are dead, then I will wait until you do not.”

The man needed her more than ever--how could she turn away like this? At last--there it was. Perhaps his optical sensors showed it, but the look in hers changed the moment he thought so. She analyzed that he really was in danger.

“Oh! Oh! Oh, come here,” said Paris--she went over to him. “I am sorry.” It was only a split-second that the contradiction of this behaviour was true and happening--and that was why the man wanted her to die before everything else in the rock-ball. This charm and demeanour--this sincerity. Others would have walked away, yes. At such a seemingly untroubled man who was troubled very deeply inside--for physicality was easier to detect than mentality. This was the undeniable truth--and this was what the man knew, which was why he tried to hide the latter anyway, although finally unsuccessful in this moment. But Paris was here and he was glad for it. 

“Paris, promise me,” he said. She listened intently. He was barely strong enough to say his planned speech, but he pushed through anyway--for barely was almost, and almost did not mean not. “Promise me that our offspring--wherever they may be, whatever they may be doing, are safe. Promise me that they will be intact the next time they visit here, and both of us--and also promise that they do. As soon as possible. I want them here now--I would kill a man tied to a chair if I had to--without regret or hesitation, and you know I do not lie when I say such things. I want my children back. I want my children back now.”

She nodded--those stupid droplets again--they were back! Another appearance they made on her optical sensors--but she smiled and gasped--no, it was a gasp of joy--a laugh, he predicted--and he was right! She said no word, merely just embracing him instead--though he knew she promised. Oh, indeed alright she did. She would not not. He knew how much she wanted all that he did--how much she wished every single earth-spin nothing but the best for Cecil, Dalia and Violet. Such preciousness. Such integral aspects of his sentience force, as would any offspring would be for their birth-givers. It was just that way--it was just a part of existing that this would happen--that they would be the centre of everything. It was not such a bad thing as well, no. It definitely wasn’t. It definitely wasn’t at all.

Most would agree. So he returned that embrace--something he did not hesitantly now, when eons ago he would have. 

Then the fast-forwarding. Paris with the callings and their reluctant voices. 

“Mother, ugh, why must you request this now?” said Dalia. 

“I am very busy, though I know this must be important. Is Cosmos okay?” asked a voice that could only be identified as Cecil’s.

“Oh! Oh, my. Yes. Yes. Indeed, alright, alright, I ain’t no pal-caller, I will okay? Just hang for a few more earth-spins, if you will. A few more days, yes. I will come! I will be quick!” said sweet Violet.

The man must have had a state of disbelief when Paris surprised him--he surely did. There they were, at the door, and they all immediately reminisced of when they all bounded down the steps of this household together--of the days when they all played and talked and comforted each other about friend-boys and friend-girls that broke their hearts. 

And they did not come alone! The man was so astonished to see younglings--not just any, his offspring’s younglings--his offspring’s offspring! They were tiny and built to be adored--for their round and stuffy face-sides and goo-gah esoteric language. 

He hollered. He cried--he spouted reasons and vied. Vied for the affection of these tiny people. Vied for it as well from his own tiny people--who so graciously respected his existence and their own existence because of his existence, showing it with embraces to him and Paris. Paris, it seemed, was also overjoyed--but perhaps it was quite literally for him, the term overjoyed, for he could not actually be any happier. The limit--it was low as well, which was saddening. The others saw this and wondered why. He did not know why. 

“Cos--er, father?” said one.

“Strange oddities, my. Alright, is he?” said another, for now he could not distinct their voices any longer. It was too much effort.

“It is I, Dalia--you remember, do you?”

Dalia? Who was Dalia? He never knew a Dalia in his entire life. These strangers in the house had to go--and they had to go now! He stood up and produced their fear--all of them. Even Paris who tried to calm the man--but he was not on the brink of no sanity, did they not see? He was perfectly capable on his own.

He did not need the intense-fondness of these strangers. How could he have been so weak all these sun-surrounds to depend on their intense-fondness? He was the true master! He was the peak of person creature kind! He was to be the absolutist, he was to gain infinite destiny and power that he would be the one-of-a-kind out of the sea of pal-callers. And all these were pal-callers for they had nothing singing in their blood pumps--of course, they didn’t. They never would. Only he would.

“Hey,” said one of the strangers--a fully-grown man. He had a beard, he was big and strong yet still so young--he looked like someone he had seen recently in a mirror, and he wondered why. “Calm, Cosmos. Ah! I will end this devastating rule once and for all. Father. I am proud of you, father. You are proud of me.”

Perking up: “Why must I be proud of a stranger? Have you come to say you are no stranger? That you are my child?”

“Yes. You helped me to overcome my fear and disability to control those four-wheeled vehicles on the street. You must remember. I don’t know how long you will after you do again, but hear this out. You comforted Violet and avenged her--dealing a much-needed attack on that troglodyte you so heavily thought he was. You must remember. You accepted Dalia’s mistake. You must remember. You brought us all to places and taught us lessons and made us who we are--we live through you. Forging our sullen and dark, pitiful empty voids of thinking organs are all we owe to you, a feat that is extraordinary. You are no ordinary person creature, no. You are my father.”

“I see no reason needed for this recollection--my thinking organ is perfectly fine and capable of bringing back these files from its databanks, Cecil.”

He did not know why, but his first offspring had a relieved expression--in fact, he smiled, exhaled, even chuckled a tiny bit. His sisters also did the same--Violet put a hand on his back as if he had accomplished something. Strange--did he raise his offspring to be such strange creatures? He supposed they would be if he was--and he knew he was. Yet he didn’t. Yet he did.

Paris did a lot of work that evening--work that would not be considered it, if it weren’t so tiresome for an aging boylessness-holder. The feast of sun-energy, the entertainment and talk--and here he was using that secret of his called enjoyment, yet not providing any contribution to it of others. This was a helpless situation he presumed--a retaliation of sort. Mostly, the three offspring reminisced of their “memories” in the living space of his and Paris’s--he did not why, he was jealous--it was only his and Paris’s! Anyhow, champagne bottles were opened and speeches were shared and the three--Cecil, Dalia, and Violet--managed to learn all about each other’s offspring, and they traded sometimes so one could hold the young youngling of another and meet such a precious person creature that would dominate the rest of their sentience forces--which was, as deemed earlier, inevitable. These nieces and nephews (he really wished he understood that goo-gah language).

When he was seventy, he was an outward showcase with a demeanour that bore his craven strife. Along with his purported attitude of positivity at what we know as life came his burning ambivalence about himself. They were--all along with him the entire time he lived on this rock-ball of course, yet none other time was it so visible and prominent than now, he concluded.

He knew. All that things that have happened in history have resulted in one reading this sentence. The wars and the conflicts--the tyrannies and the civilizations--the births and the deaths--the nations and the conquerors--the discovery of fire and the tools--the bipeds and the extinctions--the choices and the sacrifices--the leaderships and the movements--the revolutions and the genocides--the ancestors and the descendants--the survival of them all. And more, that not many perceived. Such as the changing of the winds and the ocean currents. The creation of one’s cells from the eggs that would hatch them. The right atoms in the right places for the viewing of the sentence from wherever it would be--a paper, a tech, or something impossible to understand in the far future. Yes, there were countless and impossible factors that alluded to one being able to breathe with their breathing organs and read the words that befell their visions.

The feeling of person creatures and the modern world today feels ordinary. Normal. As if this was the way humans have always existed. However the truth is that person creatures are highly sophisticated and advanced--and, most importantly, utterly unnatural compared to all sentient forms on the planet. A feat that was accomplished by many, many sun-surrounds of change, of adaptation. Extreme--that was what person creatures were, extreme in the sense that nothing else was like them.

So, he watched his three offspring grow and learn. And thought that they didn’t know all this. Did they know they would die? Did they know that he would, soon? He watched and thought that they were so happy with their families--yet so oblivious. Ignorance a downfall. He wondered if they knew that their existence on the rock-ball, so much more vast than them, was not permanent. He wondered if they knew the existence of their offspring was not permanent. He wondered if their tiny offspring--so young and so inexperienced, barely able to comprehend language itself--knew their existences were not permanent. He asked them.

“Oi, I know, of course I do,” said Cecil.

“Then why the smiles--then why the cheers? Why the excitement?”

“Cosmos--are you okay?”

The question--a surprise it was to him, truly. So unexpected that he blinked to ensure reality. His blood pump pounding yet no anthem in sight--an oddity that he wondered about from time to time.

“Perhaps it is my turn to ask a question?” said Cecil. “The smiles, the cheers, and the excitement--why not?”

The old man thought about that the whole day.

The more he did--the less he did. And he wanted it the other way. So he made it so--the less he did, the more he did. He watched them again--as the years went by once more--as the rock-ball encircled that star over and over and over and over again, he watched his offspring and their own offspring--his grand-offspring. But this time, he did something different. He saw the smiles, the cheers, and the excitements at various stages in their sentience forces--such as achievements and accomplishments--and bathed in their warmth and glory--imagined that they were not useless after all. As if winning that kick-ball tournament would contribute to the increase of life expectancy of the universe. As if doing an impressive performance in that ballet recital would contribute to the advancement of person creature kind to explore the cosmos. As if graduating would get you closer to enlightenment and close consideration to a deity.

Now, he understood--more or less, they would. A step so minuscule compared to the vast amounts of amounts in this sandbox playground we all played in, yet a step nonetheless. For a person with that ceremonial certificate would be closer to that state of absolutism as a deity than a person that did not have one. A person that knew how to kick a sphere well would be higher on that rank as well. A person that knew how to keep balance after numerous spins on one toe would most likely also be considered for the role rather than a person that could not even do a single spin. Useless? Perhaps the wrong idea--and perhaps he had been viewing it all wrong all along, and if he had learned this very same fact earlier in his sentience force, rather than late, such as now, perhaps it was the key to living an anthem-less life. To living as a potato--to living with normality, something he knew was a burden yet always wanted. To ease the pain of it all--and yes, all--and Paris had been trying to show him this, the old man thought. But he only understood it now, yes. Oh, sweet Paris--why could you not be more stubborn? Why could you not force him to suit to your needs rather than the opposite? Why could you not be so perfect--so kind--enough to never plead for something that you needed much more than whatever he did? 

Cruel. This was why when he saw those tiny people bothering his peace on his seat in the outside meadow of sunshine and breeze--he was angry at them. For no reason, perhaps--although they saw a reason he did not, for they apologized as if they understood.

“I’m terribly sorry, mister. I’ll try not to kick my ball on your lawn and grass again, mister,” said the nuisance. 

Ah--so they didn’t know, he supposed. The truth about his anger. At the rock-ball. Maybe because all his hopes and dreams were never achieved--maybe because so late in his sentience force he was already, and nothing had really happened in it. Nothing really happened that what he did was worth noting. He was not famed or hated--a select number of person creatures knew his name, when he longed for all of them to. It was not the child, nor the ball--not even the grass! Not that stupid grass! Why would anything be about that? It was his ineptitude at everything--at life itself, at fate--at everything.

The nuisance--er, the little boy--the old man said to him, “Young creature. Your goals--what are they? What do you want to be known for in the future?”

“You mean what do I want to be when I grow up?” said the little boy. Gee, the old man definitely worded that strangely. “I suppose I do have things in mind. I want to be a superstar player! I want to be the best person to ever kick a black-spotted white ball! I look up to those who have already done so much in the area--or should I say field, for humorous effect, ha! Anyhow, I want to be just like them.”

“Indeed. Do you have a plan to achieve those goals?”

“I dunno, mister. I am a young one, remember? I have to wait for this hunk of a rock we stand on to circle that big light in the sky multiple times before I can really do anything.”

“Yes. But why not start now?”

“Huh, mister?”

The old man--maybe he would not be so difficult this time. Before, he would shoo the unintelligent creature away at such a question--for he did not want to explain twice to people he knew he would have to explain twice to--for he knew if they did not have the capacity to understand the first time, then they wouldn’t at all. But he realized, and only recently, that this was a trait of the pal-callers who had no anthem. Since he was born with one he could not connect with them--and he wondered if it was possible to give them one, to teach them how to sing one, to birth one. And he theorized that perhaps it was, and it would all start if he did not shoo these people away--if, instead, he explained himself twice.

“Well, it depends on the view people have on you for success--which is a matter that not many consider more important than your inherent skills themselves. You may be the best player--yet looked down upon for being a small child--that is how this rock-ball works.”

“This rock-ball sounds terrible then.”

“It is! Yes, it is. I agree wholeheartedly. But the rules of the rock-ball define person creatures, and not the other way around. But the truth is that is a lie--and that, if you worked enough, it can be the very opposite. A person creature can define the rock-ball. Shape--mould it--with enough strength, of course. And here is the secret. Do you want to know the secret?”

“Yes, mister! I do!”

“The strength is not inherent. You do not need to be born with it. The strength is not achieved, either. You do not need to train a certain number of hours to get it. It all starts with you--you can have the strength now, or you could not. It comes down to your belief if you have it or not.”

“I believe I have it! But, mister--how can you do so? What if you lie to yourself--and you think you have it, but you really don’t?”

“That is the first step to really having it. You must act like you do have it until you really do. That is the secret. It is a deliberate process--you believe it, you pretend it, and then you are it. And when you finally are it, you don’t need to pretend anymore.”

Along with a quirky but sincere thanks mister the little person bounded out the street to practice more. The old man--dare he would do so--raised the corners of his eating organ, forming that smile. Although this time, he did not do it because it was a perceived perfect time to do so--he did it because he naturally wanted to. And that was all that made the difference.

Break--down the stream again, this time, quicker. And quicker. It seemed tales and chronicles always had the intent for reckless clout--scums and their ways to gain it and their reasons for it. A record of his own deeds and events for--what? For a measly gain of viewers--fame, reputation? Or rather, a more important reason? A reason to teach--a reason to show--a reason to prove. Points that he so dearly held to his blood pump and must be spoken to all of creation. The world. All of existence. Firmaments and heavens. 

Not for some artless piece of entertainment--not some meaningless popped-kernel munch-inducer. For something truly valuable to be made with creativity and intelligence--to regard it as a piece worthy of the title of mastery. Of more, even--of godlikeness, of that perhaps possible yet impossible absolutism that he dreamed of--becoming what he so held highly as a powerful deity in the arms of a person creature, who deemed the imperfection of person creature kind, passing judgements here and there and whenever necessary--and always in the right. Natural, authentic, supreme, unlimited and omnipotent wisdom--autocratic yet not despotic--this was, he believed with all of his might, what every person creature stood for, valued, and wanted most. However, they just did not show it as much, or as well. On the contrary--there were countless--and literally, for the infinite number that would appear in the future due to the permanent, unceasing, perpetual and interminable cyclical process of birth-giving--of person creatures that would live and die without showing a single care about desiring a state of absolutism. Perhaps indulging in the pleasures of life dingily, stupidly, foolishly instead. Such as absorbing pleasing and appealing substances or activities. However they would all have one thing in common and he believed so--and it was that they all wanted one thing--more power--whether supernatural and omnipotent or not (perhaps politically, economically, socially, or more), they did. And they did, very bad. Even he did, which would be the last thing he would admit before his inevitable untimely death, yet he knew he did. He liked to wish he didn’t.

Ah! He had never ranted as such in a very long time--and he was pleased by his retained ability to do so, once thought abolished long ago. As he grew wearier as the globe all person creatures in the history of existence have lived on for eons circled completely around the sun numerous times, it became harder to retain things like this. Things, say, like his past and his personality--the one that differentiated him from the rest, which he was proud of. Was this how he used to be? He liked to think so, but of course there would not be a machine able to send him back to provide any evidence. If there was a seller of one, he surely would be the highest bidder--everything he had, even past his financial limit, of course. His soul would carry as a price, even--he was willing. And that made him depressed, you see--yes, it did. To realize that he had swept by these years without a glance at them--to see that now he was where he was, and he didn’t know how he got there, or how he got there so quickly--jets never looked back on their cloud trails, he supposed.

But more days passed and he knew all he could do, really, was think. So he continued his flow and wondered about the topic of untimely deaths--and how, for all deaths, each and every single one in the existence of person creature kind history, was, in fact, untimely. The reason for this was because not a single one wanted to die--and for those that did it manually, chose so for it was better than life which was probably already death for them, an understandable viewpoint. So they were included in this group that he had grouped together. 

His regrets surmounted on the peak of his thinking organ in a powerful swirl. For one, an exemplary high one was that he had spent so much of his sentience force in this state--this state of having an anthem and worrying too much about the fate of the rock-ball or the stars in the universe. This disallowed him to enjoy--altogether, he meant. For Enjoyment herelf was ripped away from him--he could no longer kiss her or touch her and this left a hole in his blood pump. And ever since--since meaning the time he was birthed, for that was how long it had began since--he was forced to live on that anthem, never experiencing everything what every other person creature in the history of existence did--except perhaps maybe Cecily, that salacious woman! Ah, he salivated with a single thought of her--anyhow, that did not make matters any better. At least, not in an objective sense.

When he was little, he saw those thousand-year-olds and million-year-olds, remember? And each time he thought about how complicatedly simple the rock-ball environment he lived in was, and how it did not allow one to die. How the only way was to do so yourself, or have a tragic accident--and now he wondered if he was part of that group, which would delight most, but not him. For, he knew, that though he was right that all felt safe in this new, profound, modernness of humanity--fear was an ineradicable feature of all that still instilled itself virally. 

One time, fear showed itself when an outage of power occurred, during an evening. In this paradise he put his trust and faith so highly in--it had failed him, and his disappointment was infuriating and great. Only his Paris would alleviate it--the pain. They looked for each other in the dwelling for comfort and solace.

“Devan? Where are you? I need you, I’m scared,” said a shaking and utterly frightened Paris.

“Are you there, Paris? Come over here, I need you too.”

It was as if the world had stopped. He had merely been watching the television all day (a sign of oldness, he sighed whenever it crossed his mind) and all of a sudden the world had come to a halt, a standstill. There was a tiny, soft booming noise and all light and sound had disappeared. Discontinued were the machines that hummed, doing their chores, such as cleaning clothing and dishes or providing entertainment such as his television. It was the most frightening thing for him--an old man that had everything to fear in the world because of his frail, weak, and fragile stance--and the reason it was frightening was a reason that he could not explain--for there were many.  For one, it was as if in a split-second, he had gone completely turned deaf and blind. As if the cosmos was continuing, just without him now--the machines doing their chores were still humming, Paris was still singing a tune, the stars in the night sky outside continued to shine--but he could not see it anymore. For he was gone--dead. 

For two--and this bothered him more, you see--it was as if the paradise he knew had failed him in a way. In this nation that boasted high-level living and hard-to-die rates that most understood as qualities that proved how perfectly stable the rock-ball in current, modern times was, he was still able to fear--and fear death, to top it all off. So, rather, this paradise was imperfect--and that bothered him, to say the least! He wanted to curse at Fate, stab her in the breast multiple times, and then elope with Enjoyment to some faraway world with no sea monsters to eat his yaks, where they could show their deep affection for each other every single night in the candlelight. The attractiveness of Enjoyment was immeasurable anyway--and Fate’s was considerably comparable to an ogre. But yet, he couldn’t--for that was how this rock-ball worked. Fear was imminent, probable, and could never be rid.

Eventually, he found his precious Paris--and she found him--the two events were connected, they were one. United once more, he decided that the inside of the household was too scary, dark, unforgiving--and that they did not desire putting up candles or lights of flash--traditions that bothered him. Paris knew these traditions would indeed bother him, as did all, so she agreed before he even asked and they went outside on the porch, where starlight would be their soothing relief.

Now they were calm. However, traces of fear showed itself in Paris’s blood pump, who hugged him tightly--and he did so back, looking up at the open air. At the night sky. And then saying, “Paris! Too unfortunate you are still afraid of the blackness in the city. Look at the wonderful sky! So dark yet rich of shining dots--so beautiful.”

“That is a rarity,” said Paris. “For you to call something beautiful.”

“It is,” he said. “Perhaps you should look, then.”

And she did. They did. For the absence of unnatural photons revealed the hiddenness of natural ones already in their places in the sky. Most would want to purge the dastards responsible for such a fear-inducing panic around the urban neighbourhood, the blackout, but the old man wanted to unequivocally purge the dastards that created the photons that blocked such a magnificent view--all of them. Including him. He was no stranger to artificial light, a sign of higher quality of sentience force--yet he was bothered by it. More so, bothered by his seeming unbothered state of using them, when he should be appalled as if it held no glory. Spited by his own actions. Inertia--it was strong for those who wanted to keep things the way they were since time immemorial. He wanted to admonish their indolence.

The night sky--when he looked up at it, he felt vulnerable once more. That things like these were able to happen--that there was no such thing as a regime that could take care of its citizens so well that no pain or fear or evilness or anything dreadful or awful would be possible ever again. There would never. This saddened him, yet it made him realize all the more that it was important for such an impossibility to exist. For he would never have a moment like this, holding Paris and thanking the cosmos for having conditions enough to live--for having light and machines that hummed and did their jobs and the beautiful night sky and Paris.

“I don’t know what to say,” said Paris, breathing--yes, she was. He thanked whoever was responsible for it again, and thanked that he was still breathing, too.

“Me as well. Then don’t say anything.”

She didn’t.

Those scum and their imperative business to rout all that is good and nature--trying to resurrect awakenings yet so becoming far from them in the process. All those who looked for what they looked for looked in the wrong direction, and he knew this. Enough so that he did not look in the direction they all did--sometimes, he did not look at all. Alright, perhaps a lie--yet he believed it, so did that really make it a lie? Perhaps not, yet he believed it did as well, so it would encounter an absurd contradiction that would go on and on--an enigma, conundrum that could not be solved. Which was, intrinsically, the innate nature of all questions anyway--of ones about profound topics, yes.

He would be an auxiliary artisan. A wizard of grandeur that sought what others only dreamed of finding. An indefinite role--yet so definite. Frolicking in pastures was something he did not want to do, like the rest, and so he would be that flock leader with the cane and the skills of leadership--but how could he? No one had the capacity to listen--at least, to one like him, no. It was devastating to realize something as such. For the old man, it was enough to crush his spirit--but he had thought about this before--he had, he supposed, given up long ago. He would not be the one descendant to fulfill this role--it would be someone else, someone with enough talent to do so--and he would relax in the rest of sentience force with Paris. That was another thing, as well--the limit of the clock-ticks. Yes, it was canon for all person creatures--all that held a sentience force, really.

Everyone seemed to have louder sounds and colder hands these days--he suspected, no, he was convinced that it held a relation to becoming older. Sure--was he? He did not know. He did not know everything or anything about this inside joke known as life, this inside joke of being a person creature. He kept most pal-callers at a nameless distance and he admired that about himself--he was satisfied with a characteristic he had, in a way--and how seldom did that happen? That one would be content with personality traits and whatnots? Belittling, yes, but no need to disparage it--much like one would do to an infant.

Infant? Child and childhood. The terms always certainly did bring back unwanted memories--memories he did not understand yet did by so large a margin through feeling and no rhyme or reason, nor sense or logic, nor science and fact. 

He remembered himself when he was small--usually he could recall the age, but at this point in his sentience force, when one sun-surround would equal around an eightieth of his existence when back then it used to be an one’th, not anymore. A slice of cake that was split into more pieces as the clock-ticks went on.

Anyhow. Living in this ishy-poor area where tiny creatures he was taught to call geckos crawled on walls and even tinier ones they ate to call ants, there were many of both creeping and crawling around the living spaces and kitchen. One earth-spin, in particular, was a vase in a hallway--for some unknown reason, there was a large gathering of those pesky insects around and on it. Oh yes--he’s had experience with these tiny creatures. Stomping on them, Paris stomping on them (and then bursting into tears), oh yes. 

Unexplainable reasons--yet that didn’t stop the young lad to touch the vase. All of a sudden, like the push of a button--they traversed onto his precious limb! Ah! Thought the little boy as he shook--vibrated his body in a fashion to generate enough energy to fling them off at supersonic speeds! He had felt them--felt them coursing through his skin, ambling peacefully as if it was something they had always wished to do--around his limbs, behind his back, on his chest. 

The little boy thought that they would be doing that all day. Ah, well--at least by the next showering of water would they be gone. And so it happened. Yet, some nagging feeling suggested they weren’t completely gone. 

And here came--which he liked to believe was the most interesting part--that one of the ants was still crawling all over his body till this day--today. That no matter how many water droplets attacked the tiny creature during his shower escapades, somehow, the ant would find ways to dodge them and stay alive, with enough resilience and tenacity. Then, would merely continue crawling around his body--while he slept, while he ate, while he talked, while he walked.

And he did feel the ant. He did, yes. He really did. When temperatures dropped and it was cold, he felt it tickling his shaking arms. When his mind ached, and he clutched his temples, he felt it crawling all over his forehead. Most especially, when he talked with Paris all those times in the past when they were not as familiar with each other as now, he felt it crawling all over his stomach. Always.

That ant would be alive until the day he left this world. 

Even now, he knew it was still alive somewhere on the surface of his body. It would be crawling on his skin till the end of time.

Him--his self, the topic of this sentence--this regent of destiny, was forbidden to fail the preliminary expectations to be in accordance with the consortium of judges of the outer-life. Robust turmoil and insipid blather lead the reactions of levity of this manner. Spectacles and debacles would announce themselves henceforth. His bovine friends, canine friends, feline friends, equestrian friends, leviathanian friends, reptilian friends, amphibian friends, arachnid friends, pal friends. All witnesses to the comings and goings of his story, as well as the final climactic battle where he, as an old man, triumphs over the sea monster. This was synonymous to the legendary Arellano, the mythical fictional tale, an epic, a chronicle, a saga, a testament--and his uncanny adventures, surmised to be one, of course. Either way, such a tale would be no cordial event. There would be no tea and cakes, no--there would be, rather, monstrous tides, and sea devils lurking beneath the titanic waves. The tale of Arellano was about a seafarer of the same name, whose many deeds rivalled those of the sea monster’s. 

Wielding nothing but wit--and, supposedly, a sword--was a man of vigour and ilk. Estranged to all but himself and the sea monster--an outcast to all known forms of society and nature--he was a lone master of the winds and the sea. Who travelled the oceans’ mighty waves and the farthest of lands, battling leviathans closer to the scale of the planet than to a person-creature? Arellano. When they asked him to show mercy, he told them to repent from the grave. 

Call him a zealot--call him an extremist--call him by his consulars and consulates--he was no ordinary man. He was the old man’s hero. He looked up to the sky at night and thought about how such a brave person creature could stand against serpents that slithered and wrapped themselves around the rock-ball. It was immaculate. 

He wanted to retain that quality--proselytize into the ways of Arellano. And then, once finished--be completely philistine to everything else in existence. Though he knew this was an act that screamed disingenuity and glib, it was a matter worth investing in. They would have to see through to him to fully understand his ideals--to the point that they could demonstrate them. He was no goober--he knew that to make people understand you, you had to sell yourself to them with fluent communication--tell them, inspire them, show them who you were. But he did so without the thought of perception on the other side. An example for one’s taste, coming up below (next).

At the dentist--he didn’t understand why he couldn’t just all of a sudden/suddenly throw a fit of rage for five seconds, then immediately calm down and the dentists would continue to work on as if nothing had happened, as if the occurence didn’t exist, which of course, it did, but to them it didn’t. Of course, you know the old man well--he tried it. They did not forget so easily. With all the tools still inside the opening of his eating organ, he chose the moment as now, and with a surge of strength rose high up into the heavens, rising and raising his fists, screaming, shouting. They all panicked and wondered aloud what the wrongness in the situation was.

“Aye! What magnificent mess!” said the expert at not making magnificent messes. Rather, the opposite. “What say you about it?”

He told them nothing. Nothing was the problem. Other than his own desire to do so, there was no other reason--and really, did there have to be any other reason as that?

“He is senile,” said another dentist. “Perhaps going mad.”

“Calm,” said the old man. “Relax. Unwind. Enter repose. It would only be at most a coincidence if that were the case. However, my action was based upon intent out of pure saneness.”

No matter, though. They called for help--first Paris, who was not confused at all and knew exactly what was going on--and then real help. Needless to say it was a long and unfruitful night. Even his grand-offspring were at his sides.

He understood then, that maybe they would always be. Maybe if he really did throw a fit of rage, but this time it was real--perhaps an attack on the blood pump or thinking organ--then maybe they would actually be there, come to him--drop the current events in their sentience forces in order to spend time with him. That thought was infuriating to him--though he knew that for most, it would be lovely. What was the cause of infuriation? That they would waste precious time to do so, rather than spending it for productivity that will increase their chances of success in the real rock-ball. He would say this to them, and would receive negative results--even when he expected positive.

“Cease this pointless conundrum. I am delirious, perhaps. I know my time is coming. I am all but not a hinderance to you all. Shame on you for coming here! Fools!”

“My, father, you really are a chatterbox,” said Dalia. “All talk but no meaning.”

Violet said: “I agree. It is selfish to not want us here.”

“Selfish!” said the old man, laughing. “Selfish? I am all but that when I give you all the opportunity to spend more time on what you want to do, instead of coming to me! Though undeserving, let me rot in my grave already!”

“Forget it sister,” said his eldest son Cecily, placing a protective arm in front of her. “He will never understand, it seems. His anthem is too powerful. Or, rather, that’s what he likes to call his stubbornness.”

“No,” said her. “I can make him understand. Father, when you tell us to spend our time on what we want to do instead of coming here, why do you think we come here?”

Could it… could it be? He was too smart to resist understanding. Could it be that this lass enunciated with convalescing words that he would never dare to think of? That, that, that she was perhaps implying what he never thought would be possible? 

He must have been showing too much emotion--too much understanding--for Violet smiled a big smile. She said, quite innocently and adorably as well, “We are only following your orders!”

For she would always be a delicate flower to him--that was a phenomenon he did not understand. Put simply, she was the youngest of the offspring and the entire brood, and so no matter how old him and them all got, she would remain the small and cute one. No matter how old.

“Who’s the fool now?” Dalia smirked.

A creature larger than existence itself would make us feel smaller than small. Yet, one wouldn’t be necessary, since no such creature existed and yet smaller than small we feel anyway. Compared to the grand scale of things, of course. The ant that crawled around his body would counter-argue otherwise. However, the old man would tell his ant friend that it and him were not so different in size after all, compared to the true scale of the universe, yes. Therefore, when he would crush ants for pleasure on the sidewalks of his childhood--he told them that both of them, he and the ants he would crush, were equally and unequivocally insignificant.

But never Paris, no.

Paris, with such a different blood pump than his, thought otherwise. Though he believed her blood pump to be vastly inferior to his, he still watched hers in total and absolute admiration. She, on the other hand, knew how immense the reaches of the universe was. She, of course, knew the tiny lifespans of the simple-minded person creature. Yet she believed everything paid a price. And that by even ending the sentience force of a measly little ant creature had a cost.

She believed that no matter how big, and especially no matter how small, everything and anything had importance. The little ant was no less important than you, or your neighbour, or the planet. Nor the little sand pebbles at your feet on the beach, nor the illuminating sparkles of light in the night sky.

It was this that he saw wondrous things in her--that she was one to cry when an ant died--that she was, without any blarney, utterly sincere and genuine. To everything. To everyone. Enough so that the tears came for days over the little dead insect that would never get to see its mother or father or friends forever because of her. That the least she could do was throw--yes, a funeral, for it.

He had always believed this to be stupid. He could never be more wrong. She didn’t even have to explain to him why it was not, for she knew he would eventually. No, instead, one day she said, “One day, I hope you will be able to see past that stupid anthem of yours to see what truly matters. One day, I hope you realize and understand the true nature of person creatures, how beautiful they are on the inside and outside, and not how insignificant they are to the cosmos. One day, I hope you figure yourself out and all of your past mistakes and regrets, which you say will never happen but trust me, I know they will, and forgive yourself.”

Now he knew. And it was all because of these three children at his bedside, who came and worried about him throwing a needless fit of rage at the dentist. Now he knew that if there was a giant creature more vast than the universe itself, in fact, vast enough that it would be much too complex to understand as a measly little person creature--that existed and ended his existence with one step on a sidewalk, well, well, he would want that giant creature to cry and throw a funeral over him, too.

These three offspring that he had brought into existence understood all this much before he could, which--he would never say aloud, but--he was ashamed for. To think that they would rather watch an old man wither away and die on his deathbed than--he didn’t know, perhaps launch rocket ships into the night sky, into outer space to advance person creature kind, or invent cures for all diseases known to person creature kind. No, they would rather do the former--which truly had no benefits to them, or to anyone, really. On the contrary, the latter options could possibly be some of the greatest achievements of person creature kind. Yet they didn’t want to accomplish them, no. They would rather spend time with a withering old man.

That was how this so-called love worked, he supposed.

He began to wonder the horrors this could inflict. If the world was ending, would they spend time trying to figure out how to stop it and save countless lives? Or would they spend their last moments with their families? He could never imagine such a horrific outcome, for every inch of his body sold itself on the idea that they should definitely be doing the former option. Yet, a lie--for the one part that didn’t do the same as all the other parts--the one part that didn’t agree--was the same part that thought they should do the latter. His blood pump.

Perhaps it was a battle of wills throughout a test of time that science and reason would conflict with soul and emotion. That somehow logic and love were enemies. They didn’t have to be--they could very well be arguing the same thing sometimes or all the time--yet they were.

Showing affection to a spouse could both be logical and emotional--you actually have intense-fondness for him or her, and you want him or her to stay with you to raise your offspring as well. Raising offspring could both be logical and emotional--you actually want to because you show intense-fondness for them too, and you want them to grow, carry your lifetime’s work and dreams, carry your name, bring prosperity to the rock-ball, earn worthy paper wads to support you in the future, and so on as well. They did not have to be enemies.

They day of his true death--one day, a fine evening, Paris had some grave news (which she had known all along but knew would be the death of him if he found out) and decided that this was the best of the best of times to tell him. It was necessary for him to and she did not want him to find out at his deathbed, which would make it substantially worse.

That being said, the truth was about the truth about yaks. And though it was conceivable enough, a blinded little boy, a blinded middle-aged man, and a blinded old man did not see it at the time. They had been dubious about it all along, throughout all the stages of their sentience force (for they were one), and the truth was unsolicited but needed--it would glean his soul to the very core, yes. Here it goes.

“Devan, I have something to tell you,” said Paris. 

The old man used his optical sensors to eye her up and down, left and right, wondering if this would be merely irksome or a gradual loss. He knew who he was--irascible, and at the current moment, a jalopy. 

“Go on,” he said. “But with absolute caution.”

There she went again, doing that reverse-breath through the nostrils of the smelling organ. He knew what it meant this time. He had gotten so good at interpreting it now that it became second nature--and he thought, well, perhaps this was how it was to everyone already. This was the ordinary, yes.

“Where do you believe yaks live?”

“Believe? Why, I quite know--yes, know--as a matter of fact where they live. They live in the north. And I--or someone--must have to protect them from the dangerous waters where the sea monsters can ingest them as fuel to season their darkened blood pumps that they use to power those with anthems.”

Something wasn’t right--he did not see her optical sensors light up at such a divine and wise explanation, no--instead they withered away, sought the floor, even. And they held that emotion every person creature wished to avoid within their puny sentience forces (but was impossible to).

“No…” He had been holding a teacup, of course he had been--and as if dramatic tension was all the rage in non-fiction, as if it weren’t a cliche, he dropped it. Shattered million pieces--that was what they were. That was what they would ever be, he realized. For he was not one to glue the pieces back together--and that made him even more angry! But no, he can’t be angry! He was to be the stoic and enlightened creature--ah! It seemed that had been a failure long ago, for quite some time now. But then, would he give up?

“It is okay!” said dear, sweet Paris. “I will sweep it! Are you okay?” 

As if the man’s blood pump was falling down a deep, dark pit--and it could have been, for all he knew, for in the moment reality was distorted and the line between fiction and non-fiction this time, in the optical sensors of his very own flawless paracosm, was a massive blur. Paris--using those breathing organs for something she rarely did so for--yelled for assistance. To anyone. It did not matter who, or what, or if the required person creatures were in a situation far worse than her own--for this was what mattered to her the most, this mattered more--even if it didn’t. But yes, it did--for that was how intense-fondness worked, that was how connections between partners worked--and she fought to preserve that truth by saying this was the most important situation of her entire existence on this rock-ball.

“Are you alright? Are you alright?”

“Paris, I--I simply need room to breathe.”

Out the door. Helped to get through. Whizzing whistles and flying pans could have attacked them at the moment--but as if she would have enough of a care to give about them. No, this was something far greater than the tiny things--something grand in scale. 

The old man, heading for the door, wished with all his might a massive lion would not be out the door the eat him alive for all his sins. Out the door they went. Oh, great--alright, there wasn’t. Of course there wasn’t. That was a certainty, and it would always be. Right. Right?

The assuredness did not come anywhere, and so he did not have it.

The old man, heaving so heavily--him being a titan carrying a rock-ball--bursted out the door was what happened next, and then out of Paris’s arms because he needed space--yes, he needed the stars and the planets, for sure, yes--and then the collapse into the soft, green blades of plants outside came. Hefty breathing commencing. Sweat droplets conceiving. 

Paris--arm around him on the ground--a question of alrighty, unanswered. Instead, in between the raspy noises that came from the organ he had used his whole sentience force to communicate (to think it would betray him now, he would punish it later), he asked, “Paris. I require you to tell me very clearly. Where do they live, then, if not the north?”

She nodded with the mindset her living breath depended on it. “They do not live in the north. On the contrary--but not quite so much, I assure you, you had the right idea--they reside at high altitudes in the mountains. Mountains that are not in the north. It was merely a confusion of ups. They are both ups, I agree. And you failed to perceive that they were different.”

No. His entire belief! How could he have been so foolish? How could he have been so blinded by achievement and dreams, only to be deluded into a complete embarrassment of a person creature? His very dignity--no more value. His soul--sold. He realized then, he realized now, and he realized what he would always know from now on (however much now on there was left)--what Paris was about to say.

“Devan! You must listen to me.” She knelt. She raised his chin until once more their optical sensors regarded each other--the most soothing part of his existence, for she would be playing the role of the tether again, yes. “You try much too hard. Do not--you cannot, don’t you see? Our minds are incapable, inadequate, insufficient to hold such knowledge--to keep up with thinking about these types of things for too long. You are spending all your precious time and effort to find meaning that you will not have long left to experience to cherish that meaning! Blinded by it for so long, you are not living. That is the truth, not the yaks. You see, the yaks have sacrificed you to the sea monster themselves! They are yaks. They will not feel for their owner and master--if you are eaten by the sea monster, they will not rejoice nor hold a funeral for you. As well, if you are not eaten by the sea monster, they will not rejoice nor hold a funeral for you. They are indifferent. However we--and you must know this by now--we person creatures are not indifferent. We can choose to hold funerals for ants we have stepped on the sidewalk if we want to. And we do. And we will.”

Before she could say anymore, he perceived this as a perfect time to--no, he did not even think about it. He simply did it. The embrace. She returned it--as he knew she would, for all the variables added up that she would, for example, the many sun-surrounds they had experienced and lived together for their entire sentience forces, the ceremony they partook in together to signify their ultimate unity, the offspring the raised together, as well as just the pure definition of the intense-fondness he so wanted to understand his entire sentience force.

Passing out--that was unplanned for. But it occurred nonetheless. And since clock-ticks were impossible to perceive during the state of slumber, next we arrive as soon as his thinking organ decided to open his optical sensors and take him out of the state, a mysterious decision that no person creature will ever understand. 

She was there. The gleaming city of intense-fondness. An inseparable nuptial, intangible to all others. At least to him, yes. Perhaps only him. But now it was time for his truth.

“The kid with the sphere full of black pentagons,” he said. 

“I am listening,” said Paris. On that chair beside the bed. Oh, and glad you are awake, as well. But it was needless to say, for they were telepathic to some degree.

“I met a kid who was pure. And then I corrupted him.” He sniffled--a sign? An omen of more emotion to come? “I corrupted him with ideals of exceptionalism. The poor, poor boy. Only to learn eventually what we all eventually learn. Average, mediocre, ordinary--he will come to those terms with himself soon enough. We all do, do we not, yes?”

Uncomfortable in her seat, although shifting in it could mean all sorts of things. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him to believe. It was the gravest mistake of my sentience force, believe me. Forgive me. When he revels in his successes, he will not be prepared for his failures. I made him believe that he was destined--but we all do that, we all believe that. He will never accept his flaws because of it. I have set him up to fail.”

A look of horror was immaculate on her face. “My, that’s horrible!”

“Indeed.” The waterfalls from his optical sensors--how loud they were! “I poisoned him with delusions of grandeur, as I have done with myself. He will not become a twinkling light in the night sky, I am certain of it. He will blame me, for what I should have taught him was to blame himself. Dangly, pestering, crescent dunces! Hold the heart-wake and the stormy seas--no, it’s no use. It’s no use at all. I am defeated. That boy will be defeated. You know Paris--you know the truth, do you not, no? I swear you do, I swear by it! The truth that inevitable mediocrity all awaits us. Success and absolutism, though entwined--were never a right to us. Only a privilege. Although we all believe the former. I was so sincere with that boy--yet so insincere, you see? I know you see.”

“I do.” Her nod was vigorous. “I know. I see.”

“Good. It is not a requirement for happy person creatures to tell themselves they are happy--to keep reminding themselves of it. True happy person creatures--they just are. Don’t you understand, Paris? I had given advice to the child, though I had not done anything monumental nor noteworthy in my sentience force to be giving out advice to younger children anyway. And there is no advice. No advice that works. If there were, everyone in the rock-ball would be an extraordinary individual by now. No, to be in the middle is worse than the extreme ends. I have been wanting tragedy and trauma in my sentience force since birth, Paris! You never knew this, I doubt you would. It predates even your existence, for the mere few months I existed before you, I thought a lot. Before any of my thoughts would be driven mad by ones of you, all I could think of was about myself. That to reach that state of absolutism, that ness, was to be extraordinary, and if not high up in success, then the easier route--low down in failure. Enough that I would stand out. For the ennui, Paris! The ennui! So I began scheming for tragedy and trauma--to get rid of the ennui that plagued my thinking organ. To induce excitement in my sentience force, which was so average, so normal, so regular, so ordinary, so standard, so expected, so plain, so typical, so unchanging, so common, so conventional, that I wanted change. That my birth-givers were not terrible or evil, nor abusive and problematic. No, they were all one could ever ask for. Yet no matter, I pretended to hate them. That my habits were not to indulge in evil and troublesome actions. No, I was a beautiful child. Yet no matter, I pretended I wasn’t. That I did not have a problem of finding a person to share my burden with. No, I had found you. Yet no matter, I pretended I didn’t. I ignored you, remember? I disregarded your existence. It were all these grievances--though perfections, in many’s eyes--that I schemed, Paris! That I tried to cut and torture myself, that I tried to intercept a convoy on tracks heading straight for me, that I tried, I tried, I tried! And all this disturbed me, for I was not one to understand why I even wanted it--though I did, and I knew. Though I believed I didn’t, for that was part of the act, you see--yet I did. I did, Paris! I knew everything! I knew everything from the start--from the birth of me--from the moment I cried my breathing organs out and those experts of health ensured my flawless entrance into this devastating and disturbing rock-ball where nothing makes sense and pain is inevitable. To think I considered hypnosis to make me believe I had tragic memories, oh, the pain! Aye, such wonders of the person creature mind. So much confusion--yet in the midst of it, absolute clarity.”

“One might call this maturity.”

“Indeed. Agreed! Yes! Ordnance and ordinance, through the posterity of this rock-ball there is a quota that must be achieved--that there will be some greats. And then, an entire population of non-greats. Of potatoes. Of wake-up-juice drinkers. Of pal-callers. Living as normalities in their existences--all the ones--and that is okay! It is, it really is! For if they were all anthem-filled--if they were all greats, if everyone were all greats--then there would be no greats. The standard would be lowered--even, once more.” He paused. He inhaled such a large breath, tremendous satisfaction was found during the exhale. “I thank you, Paris. For telling me where the yaks do live, truly. I am thankful, I really am. All person creatures on the planet must know.”

“I agree. There is no shame in believing otherwise, there simply must be a mass redirection. A redirector. You, my sweet.”

“Although I am sad,” he said. “For I believe me to be. And since I deem it so, I am. Ruining that child’s life as well--do I have the strength to make peace with it? I never did, and I never shall. I will weep for the yaks.”

And he did. For earth-spins straight, and wailing--the din of a fine-tuned lord of the ocean. Oceans. He was never the same since the revelation--health deteriorating faster--declining at a rate inconceivable to person creature kind.

Paris had been an enlightenment to the enlightenment, though--and that was expected of her at this point, the old man knew. Had he been really been in a state of hypnosis the entirety of the time? Now he was super disillusioned at his verity. Was absolutism that important? The Ancient Knowingness and The Realness of Everything? How had he fared for so long in the comfort of them? For now they were the definition of discomfort--and now, perhaps (oh no, this was scary), potatoeism was more appealing now. The pal-callers and wake-up-juice drinkers--onto something, were they? Rhetorical--the question wasn’t that. He genuinely wanted to know.

Nomad bonfires spread across the lands he would soon set his feet upon, herding his herd of yaks that did not come from the north. Why did nostalgia have to be so ironic--looking back on happy times whilst being sad? Sadness, boredom, meaninglessness and the feeling of it was contagious, yes. Yes it was. 

The old man knew this for a long time, but repeating it was necessary. What he wanted was the world--the world to be eponymous with himself. With his name. The way he would accomplish it? By becoming that deity, of course--meaning, a perfect sentience force was what he needed. But that was so far in the past already--so not done, so unfinished. Turning back--an impossibility. Why, this was the end of it, he supposed. There was no harm now, no harm in doing what all the potatoes did for a living.

He tried, you see. And before it would have been an incessant pain, a burden far larger than any he imagined himself with in the past. But now? Now, it was soothing. Which was strange--he would never admit it--to himself, to Paris, to no one. It would mean the end of the universe.

But after sun-surrounds his entire sentience force pursuing this long-awaited dream that no longer made sense, what was left was a hole. The old man told himself no problem. In this rock-ball of purchase, he was going to buy some memories. But sadly, he couldn’t. The one thing he couldn’t.

He threw a fit of rage once more! He bashed things around and made noise and made a mess--as if the entire rock-ball was filled with cold hands and loud sounds. He was, to say, this. At times stupendously literal, other times horrendously figurative. Now--absolutely absolute, totally total. And his left grabber organ--it was out of control--he had no more of it on it. It spiralled and swayed with a mind of its own, this conniving piece-of-a-dotard--knocking things here and there, and trying to attack him as well! Why could he not control it? Had an alien parasite tore its way inside? This sinistrality was undermining his grandeur--his dreams of an auteur--his dreams of being an auteur with grandeur. So austere yet so pedantic. He said (and thought simultaneously), “In my wake! Even so diminutive and obstreperous, the grabber organ is so vainglorious, so full of rhythm. So reminding of my own melancholia.” And so familiar it was.

Paris arrived--shortly or longly, it didn’t cross the old man’s mind--all that did was that she arrived. “Devan! What are you doing? You might as well be unreeling the universe at this rate!”

And he might as well have, truly. Though unreliable and upsetting, this was an accurate modicum of his inner ness. He would have it, yes. He would really have it.

But Paris would have none of it. He was the scapegoat for all of person creature kind, and he knew it--do you know why? Because he acted like it. Lauded and laureled--an elevated foundation of excellence--persistently perilous--touched with supreme blessedness--and a misplaced sense of duty for the deliverance of the artless. Oh, the compunction that prevented his greatness! That prevented all the things he could have done, would have done, and should have done. Minus the could--which, as if, acted like a person creature heckling on his own importance.

“I have an idea,” said Paris with that sweetness she always did--never uncouth, she would always be. “This could either be copacetic or apoplectic, or perhaps both, but it is an idea in any other perceivable way. The idea, you ask? To camp--wilderness and nature only accompanied by our naturally wild thoughts. Along with our offspring and their offspring. What do you say to it?”

He almost expected the pal at the end. No. Paris? She would never--and yes he did say yes--it was earning trust, both ways, even when they had endless amounts of it--so then it would be for the experience. Those so-called memories he had wanted to purchase but couldn’t, and then threw a fit of rage for, and then--hold, did Paris know? Did Paris know that was why he was angry?

No matter--she smiled at him--and then he knew the answer.

The news spread--wildfire, messengers, any way possible it could--and preparations and packing was all of a sudden part of the procedure of everyone’s lives. Everyone that would attend, of course. He saw this as a strange sort of scenario for he did not think of it this way--that all this was for the old man, him--and yet they wanted to do it as well.

And the amount of leeway the trip would bring! Yes, tumbling and rumbling around in the green blades and the plants made of wood. At the hands and mercy of the sun and the moon, with all their arcanum shrouded in the fog they both casted--arcanum now figured out by the amenities of enhanced-intelligence person creatures. But even with all the knowledge within the grasps of person creature hands they remained as coruscant as the first day person creature kind set its eyes upon them--majestic.

So they went. 

“Nova! Nada! Look at those trees, forefather!” said little old Timothy. “They’re made from the same material as my wooden desk--how come? And the numerous balls of flaming gas hiding behind the blueness of the sky!”

“All this blather--trying to wind the old man dead with all this verbatim, much?” said May. “Tedious, you are--that should be your name, instead of Tim.”

Merely two of the many grand-offspring that chose to accompany him on this trip. So grown up already--was it not a minute ago that they were simply babies? That had to be some sort of illusion--or perhaps modern science had come up with a way to speed up the aging process and he was not aware or had been informed yet.

May--a refined young woman, second-born daughter of Cecil. The little Timothy--a small and seemingly fun child--the youngest son of Dalia. Then there were the rest, all running around the campsite as the adults did all the work of setting up, but, um--who were they, again? What were their names? And who could he ask while avoiding embarrassment--or worse, a scolding by Paris and his offspring to find a health institute.

Helping him talk, helping him walk, helping him do--it felt as if May was his mother and he was still a newborn. So helpful and compassionate, it reminded him so much of Paris that it nearly made him burst to tears--and the similarity didn’t differ far. She was Cecil’s offspring--he was Paris’s offspring.

“Isn’t this wonderful?” said Paris. Breathe. In and out. “Nothing to remind me I’m a beldam. Though verboten for me to say such things in your presence, is it not true?”

“Not at all, Paris. And yes, I agree. With both, seeing as in truth I am a dotard. But the freedom of this--it’s alleviating. It’ll suit me just fine--no worrying allowed. I suppose that is verboten too--as long as we are on this trip.”

“Acceptable.”

Arabesque and adagio--vanguards of egalitarian business--he derided all that was amorphous nowadays. But mighty gasps this way and that--how could that be? For one with such interest in absolutism, in the probabilities of becoming an omnipotent deity--how could one hate amorphousness, which was a necessity in the theory? To not have a person creature shape that defined his boundaries? Well, the old man supposed--change. He changed. He liked to say so, but knew he didn’t. Yet he knew he did. Yet he knew he didn’t. Yet, with all this inundating inflection--he knew he did. But arguing with himself once more--he supposed some things never changed, ha! Sterling, sterling--all his useless rodomontade and constant trepidation must come to an end at some point, right? Yes, it had to. An answer to a rhetoric--unbelievable by most’s standards but not his own.

“An alone walk,” he said.

May, who was holding his limb at his side: “?” 

Paris as well--returning the same response.

“An alone walk is what I need,” he said. “Desperately, I believe. Meanwhile, you all raise the tarp shelters and entertain the wild younglings. I will not go far. Do not ask to come, I need to be alone. Do not wonder if I am past my yearnings for loneliness, for I am--I was, a long time ago.”

“Then why?”

“Somethings are unexplainable. I’ll go now--no worrying allowed, remember? Nothing will happen to me--fate declares it by the will of itself.”

Alright was their answers--Paris by the nod and May by the letting go of his arm.

Judging by the signs of the trails he knew there would be some cliff nearby--and this was a place for such settings--a park governed provincially--ruthless in its ways to preserve and maintain its order, its beauty, its wonders. He liked that, more than one may think, more than you may think, even. Even if it wasn’t his traditional dance at verity.

And this needed to be secreted secrecy--the wild younglings would never leave him alone by their recalcitrant ways. And he was indeed authority, even if they did not know yet--even if they thought their birth-givers were. No, for who gave birth to their birth-givers?

When he found his own secluded cliff, he walked to its edge. Looked down--that’s what he did next, and he did so solemnly, and he didn’t know why. Perhaps he was coming to terms with the vast majority of the rock-ball and everything it offered, surrendering to the idea that it would always be more grand than him--something he was never subject to as a child in his childhood. But now? Forgiveness and acceptance--that’s simply all it would take.

The green blades ruffling in the bombastic and blustery winds. The gales so powerful, it reverberated its heat-taking-away in his body--a collection of cells that proved itself to be more than a collection of cells. A person creature.

He inhaled wholly--then exhaled wholly. The view overlooked a lake--as far as the optical sensor could see--and it was very far down below, at this height. The sun high up, overlooking the rippling waters. This was it. This was glory.

No more pals entourage--no more beguiling eldritch caricatures--no more ingratiating hauntings in his sentience force--from now on. Not even the destiny to be a polyglot between the esoteric Ancient Knowingness and The Realness of Everything, for such matters of importance ironically and unexpectedly held such little--well, importance. No, now he considered himself arable to new ways--new methods of achieving something he had never experienced (or perhaps seldom did, to be fruitfully truthful and truthfully fruitful). Happiness of the true extent. Not measured in degrees--only measured by within itself.

For now he knew. To truly be indelible in the rock-ball person creatures spend their sentience forces in--to be magnificent beyond all comprehension--to pontificate about transcending ideas about eusociality, it had to be apt. Mauling concierges. He only knew now, suspended in the thin, billowing air, high above the sea. He only knew now, where the cliff was the threshold to meet his serpent nemesis, a long-awaited battle that would shake the earth. That just as he did not have his yaks with him in the moment--he would not see the sea monster either, rising above the water and eating him on the cliff. There is no need for a tremendous battle to be great.

Average was--okay, fine, acceptable. As long as he was aware of what was not average--of what could be. That was more important than being that what could be.

And if the Aza of the Thoth awakened? If the celestial creature dreaming the universe woke up to force this reality into the gone of existence? The story of his life--the view from the cliff with the powerful winds--everything and anything--would all fade. Would cease. But would even the lord Aza of the Thoth cease to, as well? For he is in the imagination of person creatures--and so would he not perish along with all imaginations? Would it be a self-inflicted death? Are we the imagination of Him or is Him the imagination of person creature kind?

Bah! All the primordial chaos and cosmology and cosmonogy and cosmogony nonsense. Did all those famous and grand thinkers stop to even think? To even look at this view now--of what he saw? A glorious rock-ball filled to the brim with vast realness. From the tides below, to the shining star in the blue sky, to the blasting winds, to the ruffling green blades at his walking organs, to the very breath of fresh air that he voluntary told his thinking organ to do. Just that, nothing else--no theories or ideas, purely the main and absolute of everything listed. The old man proliferated his sense of wonder and doubt at the same time.

He stepped closer to the edge. He’s old. The old man is old. He was going to die. An unfortunate inevitability with all those fortunate enough to live. Another irony, he supposed. He stepped closer and closer, peering and peeking over the cliff and at the same time into the doors into the next existence. He was going to die, but not today. 

All that would be in today was awe.

When he turned around from the very edge, walking away from it, draining life back into his veins with every step--he saw a pair of pal-callers. A man and woman, staring at him from a short distance--him, who was just at the edge. The woman--she clutched the man’s side limb, having a perplexed expression, staring at him.

“That’s a long way down, pal,” said the man. “I saw you staring at the edge over there, dangerously close.”

“Are--are you feeling alright? Are you okay?” said the woman.

For a moment he did not know what to say. He figured the situation to be as awkward as they probably did. Why were they even asking? Nevertheless, he found the words coming in pieces--clumping up until they formed the perfect sentence he wanted to say. 

“Never been better,” he said. With that, he walked past them and down the cliff trail, wearing a smile. It seemed to ease them both, for their faces were filled with relief. 

Soon nightfall came and the restless soon would have to face rest. May livened up at his return--exhaling with relief and hugging him. Sleeping Paris in the tent--all the offspring’s offspring eating their final meal of the collection of twenty-four hours, some brushing their biting bones, some already in their tarps dreaming away.

“Everyone’s sleeping, grandfather,” said May. “Our tent’s over there, with Paris and Tim.”

After many goodnight exchanges--and the few excited mentions of rowing kayaks the next day--he got accustomed to a comfortable position in the tent and began to relax--easing his mind as usual, doing so for thousands of times in the past--an expert at it, he’d say.

But then there was a deadly storm--and weather was checked before the trip but it remained unpredictably relentless and relentlessly unpredictable. The old man thought the worst--that after much neglecting, the sea monster finally sought him out. That it was crying its tears as rain and roaring as thunder--that it was angry he did not feed himself to it at the cliff. Booming and rumbling boisterously--the thunder. Flashing brightly and viciously--the lightning. Cracking at the supersonic level, supplanting the night sky full of stars with heated light and air. And the torrent--the endless, beating rain. Supreme, extreme--inexhaustible. And the howling wind--or as likely, a pack of canines--voicing their opinions on his inner change. You shall not ignore us, they said. You will regret ignoring this all--ignoring the sea monster and your yaks, ignoring the Ancient Knowingness and The Realness of Everything--you will regret. But they were wrong. He would never regret--not anymore, no.

A tug on his arm by little Tim--his little grabber organ, not mature yet so mature with fear. 

“Grandfather,” sobbed the tiny creature. “I’m scared.”

“Hush now, let us find solace and consolation in the darkness.” And they did--he turned on no lamps that night, no lights to blind them from the beauty and wonder of the night sky. Where all they saw were glowing embers in a sheet of blackness--where all they gandered at for what felt like an eternity was the cosmos.

And silence befell them in that eternity--nothing but coldness and darkness--things that he hated before but found comfort in now. A moment of forever clutching the little boy, so naive still in the ways of the rock-ball, so frightful still of thunder. It continued to boom in their long night of silence. Powerful winds continued to attack him because he was ignoring them--and initially because he had changed his ways. The storm would get worse, yet…

It was then the old man felt the most bliss he had ever had in his entire sentience force. He didn’t know why. But he did.

Tim silently asked, Will we be okay?

He answered yes.

Washing in the downpour of the rest of his clock-ticks, the old man knew there were not many left, especially after the trip. While it would be one of the first of many memories for his offspring’s offspring, decidedly, he knew it would one of his last. That was okay. Panic did not seem to find him anymore, after he went separate ways with the sea monster. The anthem was strangely silent--at a time like this? It would be boldly yelling--yet no, it wasn’t.

His perfect sentience force--his idealism of perfection for his time on this rock-ball--it had gone horribly wrong, no doubt about it. Horribly. With no cut corners or even minor victories. No grand victory in the end either. Yet, he still thought it was okay. Everything was fine, alright--he had Paris, he had his offspring, he had his offspring’s offspring. He had intense-fondness filling him up to the core from all these creatures--creatures that had their own sentience forces ahead of them, just beginning--when he was reaching the end of his. They would learn the joys and the pains of living--they would learn all that he had, or perhaps none that he had. They had their own paths--he had his own path--and this was the crossroad.

No matter! It was all good--and finally, he could say this with certainty, with no semantic richness or excesses. One day, his blood pump thought to itself a great time to cease working, as if tired from a long day at work, and it had arrived home, ready to rest. Forever--as if retiring from a career--as simple/complicated as that.

“Devan?” said Paris. “Devan! I need assistance--May!”

The two quickly stopped their activities--as if none mattered more than his blood pump (or him), and rushed him to that white health institute he knew he would see--even one of the last things he would, too. 

On the bed he lay--strong and weak--fighting for his sentience, yet losing. This was alleviating--and the next world was alluring. But--but--what about immortality? What about those thousand-year-olds and million-year-olds he saw walking by the streets? If the pattern of wrongness he followed continued into everything, then this had to be part of it as well--the only realistic explanation, yes--and it was the only one, anyway. The rock-ball--the universe--was not all in his head, as he had hoped, no. It was more--much more. Much more than that, than anything--and it would continue to live and breathe without him--whether he maintained his sentience in these last few moments or not, whether he survived or not--and it was likely even clueless about his existence!

Which brought him panic now--ah! Would it remember him, as he wanted? Would his name be repeated over generations, or would he fade into the darkness as the last memory of him died with his descendants? What would he be remembered by? Compassion or fright--an anthem or sea monster food--now came the anxiety! He needed something comedic to reassure him, he knew--but where was a comedian when you needed one?

When Paris entered the room--intending to stay until he either got better or worse (until the point of no more), she saw his nervousness, his terror. Yet barely--his vision was fading--his essence was fading--he barely processed her words. Something along, “Stay! Stay awake--I will find a health expert to solve this matter, my sweet.” He could not tell if she was leaving in a hurry or in slow-motion--he could not tell if it was the fastest he’d seen someone go, or the longest moment in his entire life. Nothing made sense anymore, being this near and close to the end--all that mattered was the answers to his questions, which would not come until the questions asked.

“Before you go,” said the old man, “Paris. I--I need to know for sure, you must understand.”

She was listening at the door. Concentrating on his words. Focusing as if her sentience force mattered as well. He liked that idea--and perhaps she did too.

“Are--are you real?”

She didn’t answer. She said nothing, only pausing at the door with a blank stare. An eternity passed. And then she decided to go, walking out the door, leaving him in the room alone.

He drifted into slumber once more--perhaps the last time? No, one of the last times. In his dreams he dreamt of--nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even a dream about nothing--just no dream, and not about nothing--just nothing. Contrary to the usual, with bizarre images and eerie visions, nothing came--and this bothered him. It didn’t anger him, or frighten him, or sadden him--it only bothered him. An annoyance much like a fly. Pesky, pestering--and must be slayed! This morbid reality--was one that was all he ever knew--and peace was coming, it was, it really was! It was coming, nothing could stop it, and he was ready. Martyrdom--stylish and efficient at going down, if he were to.

Poppy purple soup--hardest kind to make--hazard, hazard--feelings down with a bomb. How he felt so much from such little. And that was something he knew to be true--all evidence came from his family. Person creatures are irrational creatures that think themselves to be rational. They think highly of themselves yet prove it wrong every day. They make emotional decisions and use logic to rationalize them. They fail to realize they are emotional creatures--they are not computers, no. They do not compute the best possible beneficial outcome for if they would rather go to their cousin’s marriage ceremony or buy a sandwich at a restaurant.

After drifting for a fairly long time, a spark opened up in the nothingness, creating darkness along with it--for neither were present previously, as mentioned before. Ah, the old man knew. This would be it--his final conversation with someone else. Tendrils of wake urging him to not have this conversation, yet he knew it was needed, yes--from primitive eras to modern, all person creatures shared this common, universality--they all had this talk no matter what. Whether they liked it or not. The Talk With Death.

Or Fate, as he would call it. Not all believed this end was the end--it could be a pathway to a new, greater world. And the only way to find out was to have this conversation, to see if it was a wretched skeleton in dark robes with a farm weapon--or an elegant lady with skin made of the stars. 

What he learned now was that it did not matter--the truth didn’t, at least. For in his optical sensors, he saw Lady Fate. And he only did because that was what he preferred, he realized. Not because she was the real one and the other was fictional, no--but because you were able to decide your appointment with either based on what you wanted.

She had the characteristics and appearance that of a vixen--and she was the fabric of the universe sandbox itself--everything bent down to her and Death’s infinite will. She was never erroneous, never sectarian, never elucidating animosity or compassion. Merciless but not cruel. Ever so diligent. Not so merry. Perfectly transposable with her twin brother Death.

Under a basic premonition he knew the encounter would be ideal. He would see.

She manifested herself before him with an ounce of glory equal to empty. She was no arrogant malaise--she did her work humbly. Therefore she came here for one question only--and he knew what it was, for he had planned it all along. He was ready.

“Do you want to implant him an anthem?” her sweet voice said. It was in the context of himself, before he was born, for Fate did not see linear time as an obstacle to her omnipotence. “So he can learn everything you did?”

“Yes. He will wonder his whole life who gave it to him. When the time comes, as it has now, he will know, as I just have. Oh, and one more thing. It’s not an implant--it’s a supplant.”

“And what we are supplanting?”

“Normalcy. Foolishness. Freedom.”

“Ah, so the deprivation of originality?”

“More so the giving of it.”

“Alright. Now I must return to my eternal battle with my archenemy Ennui. Brother Death seems to like him, though. Should we tell him--Ennui--about this plan?”

“No. Why the question, even? Certainly no. But do you think he will find out?”

The question remained unanswered to this day.

She had left without warning--back to her ossuary sanctuary--into the morass of space. Soon he would be sent to the promenade of the ones waiting the arrival of either Brother Death, or, if they chose not to have an appointment, then Fate’s rock-ball, whatever it would be--though would still be condemned to never returning. 

Abettance, aberrance, abeyance--now him and his posterity’s legacy left to be judged by the rest of person creature kind--the ones that would come after their era, of course. Still there--there still, too weak to do anything more. 

The ant--still crawling around his body. The cold hands--still very cold. The loud sounds--still very noisy. Although perhaps it was less tingly as usual. Less icy as usual. A few less decibels than usual. And the scar on his wrist since he was three sun-surrounds old? Still there--but faded. Almost not there at all.

This was his last time to think. What he chose to think about was rather obvious, for it was what all would choose to think about no matter what, if given the moment he had now, before it would all cease. What would be remembered of him?

He knew the truth. He knew that only a few number of person creatures did anything truly remarkable in their lives, no matter the limited number of clock-ticks every person creature had on this rock-ball. No, only a mere microcosm of the person creature kind population did so--exceed extreme expectations. Yet what mattered about it?

The average person creature today knows more about the world and universe than anyone else in the history of person creature kind. Today, a child could calculate and determine the diameter of the rock-ball we stand on with a few simple equations. Meanwhile, in the olden days, to complete such a task would require all of person creature kind in a combined effort to dig a hole deep enough to the other side of the rock-ball, then measure the deepness of the hole themselves. That would be before they died of extreme temperatures or suffocated, of course. The pursuit of knowledge was excruciating then--and simple now. Sometimes a few buttons away.

The search for meaning. That was all the pursuit of knowledge went to. It was the destination of all our knowledge-gaining. Yet the search was homeopathy--large amounts could mean death, small amounts could mean life. Too little too little, too much too much. Necessary to live, but could kill. Could continue your existence or end your existence. 

He--and all of person creature kind--was an asymptote. Always reaching for something but never quite getting there. Forever. He was emblematic of all of person creature kind’s problems relating to the desire to understand existence itself. Anyone was.

He remembered the moment he held his dear Paris on the kitchen floor and wondered how he was able to feel what he felt. How he did, even when he knew he shouldn’t logically--for he was simply a vessel that could feel, made up of countless tiny things that could not feel. He wondered.

How the person creature was more than the sum of their parts--how something emerged from nothing--emergence. How zero plus zero equalled one. How many things not alive created something alive. How? Would it ever be known how? Or would it be an eternal mystery? How the quarks, atoms, molecules, proteins, and organelles, all not alive things--made a cell, an alive thing--and then made a person creature, a complex creature indeed--alive as well. 

And stranger it was to conceive that since person creatures were particles themselves, they did not know the nature of what they were--as if an ant not knowing what an ant was, but only knowing that it was, in fact, an ant. Particles trying to understand what particles were, even if they were particles themselves. Is that not all of person creature kind in a nutshell? Do we not know who nor what we are? Yet despite that, we simply know that--we are.

But then we live. We die. We laugh, we smile, we love--we hate, we kill, we hurt. We smell the fragrance of a rose, we feel the waves beneath our feet on the sand. We learn about the cosmos, and then die to forget it all. And we all think it is all worth it, for no person creature is born into the world with the instinct to kill themselves--to die. 

His written will was complete, he did not have to worry now. Once more, the only thing he worried about was his mark on the rock-ball--no, the cosmos. He wanted the future peoples to hear him singing his anthem. An impact--a shout into the vast expanse of infinite nothingness that would have reverberating sound waves that would never lose their energy--until even the far future creatures, whoever and whatever they may be, eons later, could still hear them. And know he existed.

Yes, he had taken care of that, too. He had put the finishing touches on his book already. He was compelled, like all other person creature beings, to leave a mark on this world, since death was the end--and so he would publish his book. The one that he tried to hide from Paris all those years ago, sometime when they were children (because that was when he started it), and then she saw the cover. She saw the title. She saw the name.

To leave this publication--this book--was his duty. This was his calling from the start. He did not remember what age it came to him for it was so long ago, but he knew it had been dormant in him from the very start either way. From his birth. From the beginning of his existence.

Peace--that was all that was left now. His time had come.

But not yet--the old man felt one last thing in him--another calling of his anthem? It was! It was loud enough to kickstart the centre of his chest again. Oh, here it goes!

And he was beginning to wake! To a dead body. Already he felt pain come back into his nerves--as if they had waited for him at the end of the tunnel--the end of his trip. And a blood pump that was becoming increasingly interested in the idea of resting--but he needed it to work! But it hadn’t made its decision yet, for he was still here, if only a fleeting moment. As if it was necessary to live one last time to see something. What was that something? He would see. 

As an aging old man, withering, fertilizations of the past uncorking his absence of able-ness--a shame. A faithful, wonder grand shame. Worthwhile, he sought--though it was visionary merely. 

Grandchildren: “His heart is failing! Mother Dalia! Grandmother Paris!”

He was loved--and he knew that--and he hated that. The ambiguity of passionateness was alluring and alleviating--requiring no prerequisite and infinite as well.

Gifts they brought for him--things he did not need and would own for quite a short time, in fact. Final will additions--he would scold them for having to write more. A pain, they were! Could peace not be so rare! But they wanted to be there, not him wanting, no. That was how this so-called love worked, he supposed. Cecil would say alrighty and worrisomeness shall not, Dalia would hold his hand, Violet would tearfully shed. There! Perfect! Why could he not capture such wonder with a camera of life? A watch-stopper? A time frame frozen in solitude? That was one of the detriments of living.

And Dalia--oh, sweet Dalia--she would say a joke. Failing to produce laughter out of him, for her, was a virtuality. Laughing on deathbed--if this was happiness, he’d better call it true now, further chances and opportunities were slim from here, from where his optical sight thresholds. The anthem, appearances great: There once was a little boy. Whom was so full and devoid of joy. And all it would take--was an acceptance, mistake! Then repressed were his multitudes of joy. There he was, would be, will be--once a little boy. 

That would be it, he decided--and this time, he was the one who did--and perhaps this time, he would not hate it. And he’d know it too. The only thing that would bother him now was the excessive amount of peace, an irony, he knew. His mind: not so sullen, dark, or empty no more. For finally, the altitude at which he had lived a finality of singleness and sophisticated, aristocratic solipsism, was malleable all along, and heed the words of others--for the anthem, the one he had heard his magnificent, entire life, had once and for all, finally, arrived at a stop.^⁠4

¹ Beginning of Childhood

² End of Childhood, beginning of Adulthood

³ End of Adulthood, beginning of Old Age

⁴ End of Old Age

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