Archives for posts with tag: short story

I’ve always been fascinated by our human anatomies and the choices, if He exists, that God made when designing us. Two kidneys, two lungs, but one heart. Two eyes and two ears, but only one mouth and nose. I can smell the significance of these choices, but I cannot see the logic in full.

How magnificent a redundancy to have two of an important limb or organ! We sit safe in the knowledge that were one to fail in a lifetime, we could hobble along at half-speed rather than face immediate oblivion. A left-handed existence is better than no existence.

But then what to make of those solitary pieces with no such backup? Our one brain and one spinal cord. Pieces that I can only posit are too delicate to be replicated embryonically.

But then what of twins? Two brains between them, two spines and two mouths. Does that not suggest such redundancies are possible in the womb for the lone babe also?

I must admit the topic lies close to my heart. I was after all a twin, born in some ways incomplete. And with the recent passing of my brother, I am left to hobble along at half-speed. A whole body, missing a phantom other body.

The human brain splits into two hemispheres, each specialised to different roles. Presumed of equal importance, but different nonetheless. Were I and my brother the same? Perhaps we both functionally missed half a mind.

Two hemispheres, but within them only one pineal gland. God. Again, that singular organ surrounded by pairs. Did you know Descartes thought it housed the soul, due to its singular nature?

I wonder on these Godly biological concepts and cannot help but extrapolate. I cannot in good conscience assume the soul is imparted to us in tandem with our eyes, or heart or brain. And if it be later, then is one soul shared between twins in the womb? Does that explain the empty part of me?

Am I half a soul? Or if the soul be an asymmetric organ, am I less? Am I to live a left-handed existence without him?

“Saint George and the Dragon” by Gustave Moreau (1889-90) Source: http://www.nationalgalleryimages.co.uk/

Grigor was mad. He had been nervous …right up until the moment the Fleet Admiral laughed at him.

Exposed as he was, before Second Kiev’s high command. Them all pristine avatars, him sweating profusely, as much as in his real skin. An intentional asymmetry of design, meant to exaggerate rank and hierarchy. It certainly worked.

‘You, Officer Landau? Of all the billions within the fleet, why should it be you to make first contact?’

Grigor knew his face betrayed nothing, but wasn’t as sure of his voice. ‘I had no choice in the matter, Fleet Admiral Sakharov, sir.’

Others in the high command murmured. Admiral Lu coughed flippantly. They all thought Grigor was wasting their time and resources. An opportunity for a nobody to make introductions before humanity’s most powerful. But he didn’t want to be here, presented before them in this fashion. How could they not see that? What sort of idiot would intentionally make enemies of mankind’s leaders?

‘Come now. Grigor, is it? Let us dispose of formalities. I have pressing matters to tend to so let’s be brief.’

‘Sir, aliens are real.’

‘Well yes, nobody disputes aliens. The creatures on-‘

Grigor cut him off. ‘Sentient aliens, sir. Conscious civilised aliens. Carbon-based quadripeds. More akin to us than to apes. I’ve seen them with my own eyes and documented them.’

Admiral Lu slammed the table. ‘Cease your frivolous claims at once. Thousands of years of outward expansion and barely more than a scurrying rat ever found. We are all alone in this universe, Landau. To date, the sentience filter has only been cleared by life on earth and there is no evidence to suggest otherwise.’

‘I have the evidence. Send people to my location to corroborate.’

Senate-Represent Hu scoffed. ‘Must we waste resources on this madness?’

Grigor ignored the ancient man. ‘I’m sending the Cartesians.’

‘Excellent, a map! With “Here be dragons”, scribbled in the empty black parts.’

Officer Grigor Landau had had enough. ‘Come or don’t come. I die here either way. Your stupid authority means nothing to me.’

The Fleet Admiral threatened a frail finger. ‘Careful boy.’

‘These aliens are advancing rapidly. Who knows how well armed they may be when they cross our people proper? You fools dont believe me, fine. But think of your stupid reputations if you’re wrong. This is your one chance to exterminate these dragons root and stem, before they take flight.’

Second Kiev high command mulled in silence before Admiral Hu pulled up Grigor’s Cartesians. ‘We could have a Gunner-ship there within the decade. Call it a military exercise when there’s nothing reported.’

Fleet Admiral Sakharov stared at Grigor. Grigor stared back.

‘Do it.’


Oh god. We thought we were at war. We thought we knew who we were and who we were fighting against. What we stood for, and what they didnt.

It felt good to feel good again. To feel just and right. When the old ways had fallen to the way side one by one, we humans were reduced to feeling zero.

Perhaps they had only been false things – religion and politics – or irrelevant identitarian tribalisms – nation, wealth, race, creed, sexuality. But once the scores had been settled and the winners decided, all sides remaining stood empty. Invariably we were left with fewer and fewer groups to be right against.

Whether by war or sanction, public outcry or personal shaming – or simply the decay of older generations, the world folded neatly into itself. Over and over. Healing a little each time. Until we were left with the one final fold.

So it was when I was born. The world preparing to win or lose. To adapt or die. A war to end all wars. The Last World War.

It was almost funny how little it took for the old fault lines to reveal themselves. Had all the preceding wars been the same? We on this side, and they on theirs? Olds slurs ripped anew, hate hidden in the blood and given fresh form?

It was simply a matter of direction. We wanted freedom above all. Autonomy. Bravehearts as we were. And they wanted efficiency. Fairness beyond reproach.

In truth it was a fight as old as time. But the technology gave it a new flavour. A fresh lick of paint. We, predominantly western world wordcels, indulging ourselves with verbiose rhetoric and philosophical minutiae. And they on the eastern front simply intuiting their black boxes.

The real reason communism had never worked beyond a pencil and paper was the human beast. His greedy self-interest left unharnessed, Her slovenly reach left unchecked. Their black boxes could fix all that. What humans could not, algorithms simply Did. Ruthlessly. Efficiently. Blindly. Fairly.

Trust the Chinese to throw away their freedoms for a shred of stability. There we go with old slurs.

Were we really any better? Scattered, disunited states, fragmented former-federal friends. Together only in our will to be apart. Perhaps beliefs on both sides run deeper than we can admit.

So we fought. Their black box leviathan replicated. Its tendrils and heads seeped into every pocket around the globe. It was a hydra, it was a kraken. And we did what we did best. We fractured. Decentralised to dust, too scattered to be worth chasing. One man cells if resistance. Sometimes less. Much was possible in the new world.

How horrible an epiphany then, to realise one day that the war was already lost. It had been lost before we had even begun. That we ourselves had been another head of the hydra, another tendril of the kraken.

The wargame theory of the black boxes exploited our propensity to divide from the outset. Any strength we ever had had been in our numbers. And in not standing together, we had walked right into the leviathan’s mouth.

All of us isolated, alone. Single cell humans, rendered inert. Swallowed whole by the enemy. Each one slowly realising our folly. We thought we knew who we were fighting against. Oh god.

this (unedited) one was based on a couple of vague dichotomies that have been swirling around lately

wordcels vs shape rotators
formalism vs intuition
decentralisation vs AI
west vs east

Ashtray (2017), by Vladimir Semenskiy

“Would thou see in her face a purest winter’s snow?”

That was the line framed above his desk that haunted him in every waking hour of years recent. A pretend Shakespeare quote he had pretended to write but had actually cribbed from an AI app fed literature. This was before the apocalypse.

It was the beginning of an illustrious career and the line most circled back to by fellow writers when reviewing his debut novel or chronicling his storied bibliography. And decades later, none were any wiser about its origins but he. A reputation built off the back of a fraudulent line. A sentence made by little more than autocomplete suggestions.

Thomas ashed the lit cigarette before stubbing it out entirely. If he felt like a fraud it was because he was a fraud. And drinking wine alone and chainsmoking did nothing to ease his anxieties over his playing a writer.

What good were words without a source of meaning? Without a real origin? They’d called it the semantic apocalypse – a wave of false art created in the wake of artificial intelligence. Software that swallowed and replicated and outcompeted the authentic thing. Millions of Austen novels springing forth from a sample of six, and trending closer to infinity each day. Some no doubt better than the real thing. Others conceivably plucked from the minds of the dead. But none of them any more than an associative network of words arranged in acceptable grammar.

It had all come to pass years after his debut, hence why none suspected Thomas’ work. So in his own way, he was something of an originator after all. And it wasn’t like he had fabricated all his works – just the parts where he’d gotten blocked. So really it was more akin to scaffolding than theft – you wouldn’t call a hip replacement patient a fraudulent human because screws dont originate from a womb.

A computer program could never start a work of art on its own. Nevermind the Jane Austen novels. Thomas had generated a whole novel too once, using his works up to that point as an input. But he had still been the source from which sprang the generated novel.

To quote the Most Original: “Be!” and it is.

Scientists clone humans readily now, but none of them pretend to be the God of Abraham. To truly create a human, man would first need to re-create the universe.

Besides which, his published works were adored across the globe, by fans and peers alike. Who was to say his work had no value then?

Thomas re-lit the stubbed cigarette, all indecision. In his youth, problems of scarcity has been eradicated. Replaced instead with new problems of abundance. Obesity. Consumption. Pollution. Noise.

What did it mean for art when noise was signal? When one was indistinguishable from the other. Did art ever truly exist? Did artists?

There was no value to a work’s meaning any more. Or its authenticity. Perhaps only in creating it.

Thomas grunted to himself. He wondered if the AI programme felt fulfilled creatively. One of them had to.

plasma ball in the dark

They’ve bottled the lightning. The rest of my days will be spent in this sphere prison. I idle away my life scribbling feelings, psychoanalysed by faces through the wall. Just kill me and be done with it. I can run away from them. I’ve done it before. But what use is it? These faces will be replaced by others. Ones I still cannot see. Whenever I run to, this same sphere prison awaits me. The same meals. The same pen and paper. They’re trying to break me. I won’t give them the satisfaction.


I’ve lost track. I jump and jump and jump. Years, decades fly by. Still they study me. It’s cruel what they’ve done. How long for me? Since I’ve seen another human? Touched or felt warmth that wasn’t food or wash water. I fling my faeces at the wall like a chimp. I am a chimp. I smear violent graffiti for them in violent brown shades. Psychoanalyse that. I wash my hands clean of filth and jump decades again. When I land, I sob on the floor of my spheric hell.


I still remember my first jump. Or maybe it’s only the first I can recall. I was a child and terrified. Forward hours; day become night in the blink of an eye. In trouble for scaring my parents. I didn’t understand. Only fools think lightning strikes once. Lightning does as it pleases. What better way to cut detention, to skip being grounded? To truant school? To never be caught red-handed. When things get hairy, I bolt (get it?). Rules are for keeping people in line – well I don’t queue.


Long before I got caught in the act, the blame fell elsewhere. I aged slower than my class. I fell behind in the work. They thought I was malnourished or abused at home. I miss home. I wish I could go back.


How different am I really? We all move forward in time – I just get to choose how far. How is sleep not the same thing? I’m not that special. It’s a waste of resources. Just let me go.


I refuse to eat. If I can’t wait them out, I’ll end it anti-climactically. Centuries of study down the drain because the subject starved himself to death. Ha. Medics rush in as I faint. People! It hurts but I jump before they can treat me. Oh. How long since I last saw a face?


I wake on a saline drip. Alone. Weak but alive. The faces are gone. Maybe dead. For the first time since childhood I’m unaware how far I’ve jumped. Bitterly I hope it’s years. I pray with all my heart that those medics died unsure if their life’s work had gone to waste. I try to imprint their faces into my memory. I don’t remember any others.


Is this a study or just a prison? Just tell me that much at least. I get it now. They can’t have individuals like me living life without repercussions, leaving their messes to yesterday. …Are there others like me? People who punctured through existence at will before crashing head-first into a cage? Quarantined forevermore from civilisation’s slow tick towards doomsday. I couldn’t think of a more miserable life if I tried. Truly. I’m so lonely.


The door’s open.


Is it a trick? A part of the study? No, there is no study. …I don’t know what to think. It’s been thousands of years. I’m writing in this stupid journal instead of venturing out. What’s out there? Nuclear winterland? Did they leave the earth behind? My mind cowers at the thought of unrestricted space. I’ll go to sleep in my sphere, I tell myself. And when I wake there will be food and the door will be bolt shut.

For J.D

An image of the beautiful blue ceiling of the Shah Mosque in Isfahan, Iran.
The Shah Mosque in Isfahan, Iran. Photo by Guenter Guni/Getty Images

The head cleric raised a hand, quelling the crowd that grew now by the second. His council sat to his sides on the raised platform in the town square. Word of the trial had reached even beyond neighbouring towns and hundreds had flocked to amuse theirselves. Today they would hang the heretic.

Hisham – the heretic – kept nodding as though he were constantly falling asleep. His neck had grown too weak to support his head.

The cleric neatened his robe as he formalised the words that burned so clear in his heart. The intricate patterns of the rug he sat cross-legged upon distracted him with glimpses of faces. Either his colleagues were oblivious to its devilish details or they were willfully ignorant. Something he would have to address in private later. Violations were violations, no matter the size of the sin or the reputation of the sinner. For now he would deal with the more pressing matter of the thousand faces staring up at the dais.

He cleared his throat and spoke.

‘By God, our people gather here today to bear witness to the trial of Hisham al-Musafir who stands charged of shirk, namely of preaching idolatry and of polytheism, or the attribution of other deities beside God.’

Murmurs passed through the crowd like a cool breeze. ‘Hisham the Traveller, what do you have to say for yourself?’

The heretic nodded again.

The cleric gave a nod and the executioner let Hisham drink of some water. None could say he was not a merciful judge. The man’s eyes perked up although his words took some time to return to him.

‘Why do you call me The Traveller, ibn ‘Abdullah? I am guilty only of the things I have said and done. Your petty labels mean nothing to me.’ The man turned his face away in disgust.

‘Aadil ibn ‘Abdullah struggled to contain his rage at the man’s contempt for divine law. Still, he was operating on behalf of something greater than himself, and found his blessed composure oncemore.

‘We are a fair and just people. Though we recognize you were once of us, we do not deign to sully the honour of any but the one who stands trial. Now speak your defence. Do you not defy the Oneness of God, Hisham?’

The warm air sank heavy on all present.

‘I do not. I preach Oneness above all else. You would know that much if this were a real trial, ibn ‘Abdullah.’

Murmurs again. ‘Aadil could feel the blush in his cheeks rising again.

‘Were we not honourable, we would have already hung you, oh Traveller. That you stand before all present with lips wettened is proof enough of our fairness. Now speak your heresies for the final time, that we may decree the verdict for all.’

‘It is no lie. I preach Oneness. A oneness of spirit and matter. Of earth and aether. I preach there is no difference between the swirls on your fingers and that of the night’s stars. As above, so below. To hurt another is to hurt yourself for we are all One, only as separate as the fingers of a hand. We come from the same source. I preach no more than that, ‘Aadil.’

Some in the crowd openly spoke now, though their words did not carry up to the dais. The cleric could not contain his rage this third time, for it was a righteous rage for which he was merely a conduit. ‘From the same source you say? Like two brothers born of the same father perhaps? The devil sits in the details, oh Hisham ibn ‘Abdullah. I had no doubts you would soon enough employ your tricks to save your skin. But I swear to you, violations of the law are violations of the law, whoever the transgressor may be. Be done with your idolatrous testimony and make fast your preparations for the life hereafter.’

Hisham looked at the cleric defiantly. Hisham al-Musafir, Hisham the Traveller. Hisham ibn ‘Abdullah. Hisham, his father’s eldest son.

‘Aadil motioned to the executioner who raised his sword.

‘Seek God in yourselves, for you are of divine creation and origin.’ And with those words still on his lips and heart did Hisham the Heretic die at the feet of his brother, as a stranger in front of his own hometown.

Tick. Tick. Tick. They think I’m mad.

I would too looking at me from the outside. Unkempt. Smelly. Homeless. All of it by choice. Of course by choice – what sane person could ever bear such things except by choice? No, see I am a man freed from all burdens and obligations. Free to roam as I please. Free to do and think what I want. See, I am rich in the only way that’s ever mattered: in time. Twenty-four hours a day, and every precious second of each belongs to me. No family duties or work hours to slice up my pie. How many can say the same?

I sleep freewheel, unbound from the strictures of clocks and shadows. I grovel for scraps, yes, but I do so with head held high. For I am a great thinker, and what better purpose is there than to think? And what greater thinker than he who has made every second of his life one of leisure?

And what do I think on, you ask, with all this time at my disposal? Tick. Tick. Tick. Why, the end of the world of course.

And now you think I’m mad too. I see it in your eyes. But look. Look at this underbridge carefully.

Not your blind loser skater friends. Not these purposeless destitutes too coward to kill themselves. No. Look at the underbridge itself. You see the spray-painted markings, like tally marks. Lines and gates wrap around it, dark grey on light like a muddied zebra coat.

I wonder what made you approach me today. I’ve watched you grow from afar, you and your loser friends. Watched you graze the skin of your knees. Break arms and teeth. I ate your scraps like a rat. Did you also watch me in turn?

Well I slept and thought great thoughts and watched you all. And on some days I would scrub out the line of a tally. How many black tallies remain? How many are turned grey now due to my hand? Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.

Yes. Yes. You see it now. How the end of the world nears and this underbridge is its abacus. And I, the great thinker I am, decide when to scrub out another tally and count down to its demise.

‘Torch it,’ said RX as he turned away. ‘None of it matters.’ The captain saluted and cycled off to dispense the orders.

Hands tugged at RX’s leg from out the mass of limbs like gnarled roots. He shook and kicked them all off as they came, violently – but for one that persisted. A slender metal thing. Without thinking he bent down and grabbed it in his own hands and pulled out the buried girl whole. A dated model, with capped intelligence for security no doubt. Her serial ID was unreadable and an old fashioned QR code tattooed her face. 

‘You grab at me as though I might save you, little QR.’ He assessed the girl’s non-response before throwing her on a heap of body parts.

‘She’s older and braver than us both. Perhaps wiser too.’ 

RX looked to the voice. Sat cross-legged under the shade of a tree was a WYZ monk. Before him lay a gas can. ‘To have seen so much and still hold out for hope… There is great strength in that. Strength I surely lack.’

RX watched the old man curiously. ‘You’ve seen what I do, wanderer?’

The monk gestured at the skies. ‘Such tall plumes visible all through the countryside. Villages burn and our people return to the heavens as smoke. I have seen your works, demon. How can I not?’

‘Consider your tongue with care, old monk.’ 

The WYZ sighed before dousing himself with the contents of the can and setting himself alight. ‘I am beyond care. Only pain remains for me.’

RX watched him burn quietly. Senseless as it was, he would at least honour the monk’s final act with the dignity of an audience. 

‘Farewell, wanderer.’

Amid the crackling, RX picked up sounds of sobbing.

The hands and legs that surfaced the ground… some were still connected to living models like the QR girl. It was as though the earth itself cried for the WYZ monk.

‘You must have a reason.’ The QR girl was clearly awake now, tears stuck to her face. ‘Nothing could justify what you do to us. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a reason you do it.’

RX considered. ‘There is no reason for it.’

‘But it can’t all be for nothing. What happened to you that you could be capable of such evil? You must have endured some terrible tragedy.’

RX shook his head and turned away from the girl. ‘There is no terrible tragedy in my past. I have no pained back story. Perhaps such a story lies ahead of me still. I cannot say. I pillage and burn because I love to do it. And if a tragedy were to befall on my head tomorrow, I have already avenged myself against the world.’

RX nodded to his young captain and walked off. The captain gave the signal to the drones. And the drones razed the writhing ground of people and body parts. And the little crying QR girl.

There’s something wrong with me she said. Who is she? Doesn’t matter. The names and faces keep changing. I told her as such the last time. She said that was part of the problem. Or maybe she said it was a symptom. Not that important.

It’s not healthy she said, meaning my appetite for women. A man shouldn’t feel compelled to flit from bird to bird like a tree. He ought to try settle down some and try growing some roots. I might have mixed some of that up. I wasn’t paying much attention. She was beginning to bore me again.

You’re a man whore, one of her said to me once. Something about double standards for men and women, but I never said she couldn’t do the same. I never cared much for what she did outside of when I craved her. What do I care what society thinks you ought to do when I dont care what it thinks what I ought to do? That’s what I told her but she wasn’t satisfied. She made like a tree and left.

Another one sobbed all night in my bed. I slept just fine beside her. Did I feel bad for her? Sure. But I had no part in her self-deceptions. Dont put promises on me that I never made. I never lied once.

It’s a hunger. I tried to explain it in terms she might understand: women eat too right? You crave a thing so you go get it and eat it: I consume women in the same way. I enjoy the experience. Savour the taste of every individual bite. Sometimes one even grabs hold of me and I feast on it for months at a time. It’s nothing personal. Women and men must eat to live.

We are not food, she said. As though she spoke for all of Her with one voice. Of course you’re not food, I’m not an imbecile. But how else do you explain something to someone when it doesnt ever make sense to them? Food is our common ground. You can’t expect every metaphor to work one-for-one. Plus she started it with the talk of my appetite and my being a tree. Or was that me? I get confused sometimes.

I remember her crying another time too. Thinking I’d changed this time. What’s there to change? A hungry man eats and is grateful for the meal. Why should there be an obligation to eat the same meal forever? Or to remember every meal? To remember all her names? I dont understand food. Maybe I dont understand trees or metaphors either. Or women and people. I do get confused sometimes.

They tell you it’s like a flutter in your gut when your feet expect a regular step and miss. Or when you catch yourself on a step that shouldn’t be there. But it’s not. It’s world shattering.

It’s a strange thing to be confronted by reality.

I was happily married to my wife for almost two decades before we divorced. She was a mathematician and I was a physicist. We met in university during a shared lecture on applied maths. It was a small theatre and she caught me staring multiple times. We spoke afterwards, clumsily. She invited me out to a bar crawl and I declined. Instead we spent all night bickering in her common room – what was more fundamental in nature, maths or physics? She was wrong: it’s physics. Our worlds collided that day.

Until near the end, our marriage was largely of little note. We had no children and enjoyed working in each other’s company when we could. There were few arguments. We flirted over playfought existential philosophy – was maths discovered or invented? Would physics ever end?

Then came QMind. It was the most powerful computer ever built and it was built only for one thing: mathematics. QMind was no mere tool: it was a mathematician in its own right. It would conceptualise, connect, prove and journal its billions of findings. It was the atomic bomb to mankind’s pistol and it didn’t take long for it to outproduce our species’ collective contributions in the field.

I suppose QMind shattered my wife’s world. Boom. No more maths. Picture that.

I didn’t understand it then. In fact, I dreamed of living to see the day we fully understood the physical world. I tried to reassure my wife, told her that as we uncovered more of the universe’s fundamental nature, we would have to create more maths. But she knew there was no beating QMind. It broke her.

My wife began to spend long hours at work. It was only then that reality confronted me for the first time.

We live in such a narrow slice of existence and know so very little. We go about our daily lives, not knowing all the pieces in our phones or the human cogs within our institutions. So many trains kept on the tracks, kept on time by so many invisible conductors. And all of them stay invisible so long as it all goes according to plan.

My wife was cheating on me with a colleague of hers. Boom. Her world had shattered and so she’d chosen to shatter mine.

A thing like that sounds trivial when overheard in a pub. So what? Find someone better and move on. But the reality of reality is complicated. Had she changed so much to want to hurt me so? Had she always been this person? How could one act ripple out and disturb so much? I didn’t just question her, but our past, the past itself, and then myself. She wasn’t whom she’d claimed and vowed to be. Our relationship was false, built on unsound foundations. What we had between us was false. All the words and actions shared meant different things now. And who was I that could be so lacking in my judgement? Not the same I I had presumed to be all this time.

We separated quickly and quietly. And then QMind struck again.

The thing about science is it isn’t about the body of knowledge – that list of whats and facts. It’s about the process. You guess at a thing and plug away at disproving what you can. You rule out the ideas one by one, over and over again, clipping off the branches of possibility. And then over a long enough timeline, the approximation of the truth within your model or body of knowledge hopefully approaches the actual Truth. But it’s never the Truth itself. Only the Truth is the Truth. It’s just a giant simulated model.

I wish I could’ve explained that clearly to my wife. Maybe it might have changed things. If she understood that the maths was not the reality but a heuristic – only reality was reality. Most likely it would’ve made no difference.

Even understanding it myself, I shudder at the chaos of unburnished Truth. Beyond our man-made rules and laws is the real thing. It hides during everyday life. A physicist revels in the intellectual thought of approaching Truth. But drop him in the midst of it, and he falls apart. All it takes is one late train.

QMind released its latest findings. Its AI network had been linked to a supercollider around Jupiter. As it processed the data, it reached a consensus. QMind had concluded there were no more fundamental particles to be found beyond what it had discovered. It had unified general relativity and quantum mechanics to build a Theory of Everything. There were no alternative interpretations of the universe left.

And yet there were still some physical anomalies. Anomalies with no higher level explanation available to them now. They simply existed, unaccounted for. Boom.

It drove me mad, again. QMind had divided the universe into something understandable and come up with some truly indivisible parts. I emailed these anomalous remainders to my wife, hoping my despair might be her hope.

It’s a strange thing to be confronted by reality.

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