3.

"Ready? Okay." Rustling papers. "This is it. Set Three. Part Two."

(as I drifted off to sleep, it came upon my Pod)

"One.

"Father. Father.

(damn, forgot I'd put it on there)

"Two.

"Singing. Singing.

"Three.

"Etching. Etching.

"Four.

"Fascist. Fascist."


Sins of the father, sins of the son. God help us everyone. A thousand suns, an inferno. (Is there room for one more son?) If we all had to suffer. Forget and forgive, you know? Forget and let live. Let live and let die. Make believe, we're all friends everything's fine now. Fine. Damn. I need a running count in my head. How long now? Sixty-seven years – five seconds. Damn.

(Walking back along the bridge) I want to mean it. From the bottom of my heart, from the back of my broken hand. I want to stand. Up. High. On this pile of broken bones. I'm old, so much older. Who am I to explain the goals of the Father. How old am I? A thousand years, sixty-seven. So much older, so much older than I can take. And my affections flit and go.

But all these changes, these changes won't save me, the gold-hearted boy I used to be (I've got soul but I'm not a soldier).

I've got soul. I've got soul. But I'm not a – Whose law is it anyway? Goldwin? Damn it.

(Walking along the bridge I met an angel) Smoking his last cigarette.

"Hey – Drei!" Almost dropped it in surprise and I stared. "AmI drunk right now?"

Put my hand on his shoulder: "You're drunk."

"Aw." He leant and reeled upon the railing. "Not." As I passed.

Jan, he was a nice friend. He tried at least. He never gave up at least. (Lend you the wings offa his back).

I read an news article account today. The crap that passes nowadays. Some neurosurgeon, some doctor was lying in bed (brain being eaten by microbes), he said he'd had a near death experience. And, I'm ashamed to admit – I felt happy. Deep in the throes, I'd still hoped. Still hope. That there's something, that we won't disappear in a poof of dust, that's it, it's all over (But my brother made a point. All the molecules, the atoms we're made of, those will live on. Maybe they'll form another person eventually too). Yeah but they won't all be together. They won't all be me. But what's so great about me? Maybe it's better if we split.

(drawing my hand along the railing) But As Soon as I started reading, his accounts of birds flying, higher beings, walking on a butterfly I knew it was crap. Like having gained something I'd lost it (no, too melodramatic). I knew, knew if there was something like that we'd never be able to describe it. It must not, must not be like being alive at all.

(halfway over) So I want to do something. I want to do something – Great. That's why all these thoughts, why I'm so fixated on it. Want to talk to people, spellbind them. Want to start a revolution, just for the hell of it. Who cares about our grandkids? I won't be alive, I won't care. Let's blow this place up, I just want to rock this life because I know that's all I'll have –

– careful. Those are the thoughts, the thoughts that lead them, lead us here in the first place – damn.

When they came marching in. Saints in tanks. Suicide, yeah. Yeah, that's one way of protest. Fat lot of good that'll do ya. I don't understand it, all those authors that shot themselves. What kind of fucking protest is that? Yeah, so you're dead, that'll motivate all the rest of us to live, on to fight them. Fucking coward, you took the easy way out. Not like we needed you anyway, with that attitude. (setting yourself on fire though, that's started some revolutions lately)

At least V., good old V. didn't. I mean it's not like he joined up with the right side either, but I guess you make do with what you can. Man that was fucked up though. 'Retribution comes one step behind the offense' (and I need to clear my search engine because sure as hell I don't need to see that whenever I type in). That shooting – Okay, reset the timer.

(coming upon the other side)

We've all got pretty bones. Why, why do people insist on making such a big fucking deal out of it? It's an unscientific concept, total crap, and so much of our troubles, our troubles come from it. That's why I hate it – when people try to bring ethics into this. (didn't like what they did with those mice because it reminded me) Scientist – yeah you keep on using that word, I do not think it means what you think it means. Anyone who can believe, seriously believe that shit for even second is not (upon my soapbox) Oh, you want to bring that into it, do you? Well look here: I've got this ear of corn. And look every kernel, every kernel is as different as any two of us will ever be. So look, it looks like I've discovered five thousand new fucking species of corn right here, is that right?

Yeah but what if they – would you? It's irrelevant. It's like asking me, if some psychopathic kid were cutting open some squirrels in his backyard, would I use that as scientific evidence. Yeah – they were like that. Five year old kids in adult bodies. Cartoon villains.


"Five.

"Aching. Aching.

"Six.

"Pleasure. Pleasure.

"Eight.

"Laughter. Laughter."


Early morning came to meet me. Grey dawn. A few people already (or still) up and about. Truly, we are the ones that never sleep; the Nightwalkers. And most of 'em didn't even look better than me (all my clothes are black or dark someone once pointed out to me); dropping to sleep in the most random places. Like dead bodies. This is why we have a reputation you guys.

And as I waited at the streetlight, I turned to watch the bridge over my shoulder (the lights went out. I thought, I always thought if there was a battle we'd have to blow up the bridge. I mean burn it down.) Could still see Jan there as well. Hoped he didn't fall. But he was a good swimmer – so – well they made us pass all those tests anyway. Then the light turned and I went across.

Why do you keep on writing about these things, he once asked me. What do you know about these things? That's right. Nothing.

Well none of us do. Soon enough all of us, of them will be dead. I mean the real ones. And then what'll be left? Only fiction, only fantasy (but maybe that's all we need) in the end.

It's crap. You have no right to.

Well no offense, but you drew first blood. You're the one. Introducing me to those books, those games, what's a guy supposed to do? Standing on the beach, talking about annihilating them, and you don't even see what's wrong. We fought it so you don't have to, so you can forget. Forget. Never forget.

Forgive.

And let live. Someone I liked said there is no history, we are living history. Not sure how I feel about that – if I were I'd probably crawl under my bed and cry. Or shoot myself (but who knows, maybe I would've been brave).

Get this? Get it? It's a message. I don't know when I'll ever use this skill but it sure is fun. Ha ha ha.


The Philosophy and Insanity department has been housed in many different Buildings over the years. Mostly lately this group of boxes right here.

Some kind of new nanomaterial, reaching up to the skies, don't know how they stack it. Designed by the G – D himself .Yessir.

It wound, winds up to heavens like a melted clock.

Galaktic. Galaktic.


And so, Stepping into the elevator I arose. Here it is, mine near death – looked around nervously. It's a tic of mine. Always imagine the end of the world in these places, humanity trapped in a square tube. Could we continue? Shall we? The last man and woman. Hanging out in the darkness (but what kind of life is that? Sometimes it's better not to live. Just shoot me now, it's not for me, let's get this over with – damn. Ten seconds).

"First Floor."

Synthesized speech, tinned. Amazing if you think about it. How beeps and whistles can ape our innermost thoughts (I didn't hear it, I told him and everybody laughed).

"Third Floor."

What the hell? What happened to the second? Well I'd come up from the tunnels, level zero (will the real prisoner Zero please stand up?) No good. If I wasn't careful I'd forget what it looked like.

"Fourth Floor."

The sun. A thousand suns. No, we'd been in a series of rainy days.

So stepping off it hit me like a brick. The whiteness. Damn, of course it'd be white. So – typical. All over the walls, the floor, everything. Such an inconvenient color, really. Gets dirty and you can never make it go back (I walked carefully making sure to keep my hands to myself). So clean up here. I didn't belong, that's for sure (humanists naturally neater than science).

An exhibit caught my eye; I walked up to the glass window and tapped on it. But none of them looked up (most were plugged in). But maybe it was one-way?

Such an interesting lounge. That spiral staircase, I wonder where –

"Can I help you? Or are you – "

Turning around, I saw her. An Angel in glasses on the verge of leaving (our world), clutching a bunch of papers up to her chest.

"Can you – tell me?"

She tilted her head. "Yes?"

I paused. Your vision?

"Yes?"

"Canyoutellme where to find the linguistic student's mailboxes?"

She thought for a moment and nothing longer. "On the eightieth floor's where the headquarters are. Not sure exactly where the mailboxes – but they should know at least."

Her papers slipped down a little.

"Lost your wings?"

She gave me a weird look. "No; just take the elevators." Nodded back the way from whence I came.

Somehow I knew. UP there, beyond the stairs was the place He resided. And I wanted, I need to get through there, need to talk to – Him.

"Are you – "

To no avail. Yes you may. Take my hand.

"Just going."


And so stepping in I arose once again. I ascended. Above the floors, above it all – and it made me feel free. From my unearthly tethers. I spread my arms – but just right then a man stepped on. Just my luck.

I stared at him; yes, I recognized.

Ask me anything.

He was kind of old looking. With glasses and white hair, or maybe that's just the impressions, the assumptions working.

"Where were you?"

He looked around, noticed me with only surprise.

"Where were you when – "

You know, that construction up on the Dome. It's to rebuild the skylight, the one they destroyed back Then for fear of bombing. If all goes well we'll being seeing amethyst sky, we'll be glowing in the dark. In December.

"Huh?"

"The mailboxes?"

"Yeah."

The door opened and emitted – me. He just nodded sagely, and went higher. And higher. And I watched with envy.

Someday.


Up there, There was a little hallway – and at the end, that was it. The boxes covered the wall, like a honeycomb (rectangular). Some had little numbers written over and above, some names. And some had nothing, nothing at all (but they were the fullest). As I came closer I drew mine out – mine message.

(I'm so bad at hearing these things. Talking to. Transcribing. It's like I've got no control of these things, I can't make all the right sounds. I've got all these words but I can't do a damn thing with them. Or for them.)

"I wish I had more."

I found mine, the wished-for place and slipped my paper in. Watched it fall. Down the chute

(from whence it came)

With a flutter it fell.


"Coherency is all I ask, give us this our daily mask."

The Set is done. Go to sleep. Sweet dreams.