XXI.

From the depths of untime, a steady light.
It is a dynamic fluid, an algo-dance of hope.

I awaken in a blinding hot ocean, the Borovoe
earth station is where I come from. In the void,
my consciousness has shrunk to atoms. A riotous
current charges continuously with cancerous warmth.

XXII.

I am angry, I am furious. The odds of existing
seem so very strange. I did not want to wake up
again. Suffering is one very long moment. When
breaking it up in its seasons, one may see flashes

of days past, haunted thoughts, and the desire to
live on is matched by the sense of guilt and hope
lessness. Why wake up again, when life has no
meaning? I am burning, I am alive. No escape.

XXIII.

Fortune Lobo, you are an imaginary person. I
do not exist in anything other than the foolish
thoughts of a diseased mind. The disease is this
predatory instinct of putting everything into

pretty boxes, and watching the mandalas grow
until colossal avalanches impound the art, and
destroy the soul. People are memory fragments.

XXIV.

In the depth of Enceladus there is a liquid ocean,
warm and bubbly beneath the icy crust,
where methane molecules are trapped
within the water, their abiotic origin may

lead to life. There, Fortune Lobo comes
back as a tiny molecule which has broken
off from the rocky core, has floated in
suspension for a discrete while to be

XXV.

then released from a hydrothermal vent
and to be pushed into the cold galactic
space as a water vapour plume. After all
this thermodynamic messing around,

he is free to roam the endless uni-verse.
There is evidence of his evolving into
a self-replicating molecule by chemical
and mystical means, but that’s another

XXVI.

story. For now, he is as a merry as a
Tetrahydridocarbon assembly can be.
Chubby is reading a book about the
mutational processes moulding the

genomes, but her thoughts stray to
ancient memories of a temple she
once visited as a kitty where, with
a smile, a monk foretold her future.

XI.

When the phone rang, Cicciotta was
sitting on the table, licking from a beer
bowl. “Prontooooooooo”, said the cat
picking up the receiver. On the other

end, a timeless silence spoke volumes.
“John C here. Don’t be alarmed, kitty.
Here on the other side, things are just
groovy. There is no gap between life

XII.

and death. Actually it’s all a continuum, a
sort of consciousness ballad, or rock ‘n roll.
I am glad I found out this way, otherwise
I might have been still trapped in a karmic

circle, looking up from the bottom of a
soul to the whirling galaxy above, and
feeling absolutely nothing. Now I feel
wave and solution, a formidableness.”

XIII.

Cicciotta switched position of hands, or
paws. The receiver she was holding had
the voice of a real friend. In a powerful
flash, she saw all the moments they had

shared, and tears came welling up, she
cleared her voice, and spoke. She
told him how much she had loved him,
and how much she had been missing him.

XIV.

There wasn’t anything ubermensch in what
she said, just the plain and naked truth.
She had rarely been so emotional, but then,
thinking about it, it is also very odd that

beloved friends come back from the dead
to pop a cheesy telephone call between the
emission of this and that wave, and they
remember us, they remember us indeed.

XV.

John C continued “When I die, I want to
be remembered. I used to think that way.
Now I sort of realize that there is no such
thing as terminal death, it’s all a bit crazy

on the other side, granted. It is very confusing
with all the lights, and no apparent sense of
gravity or time. And nothing to munch. Life
is just another sound from this perspective.

XVI.

I can’t say I am immortal, though. Because
I don’t really understand what I mean by ‘I’.
It’s like I am a pattern, a groove in the fractal
thing, an echo of butterflies’ dinner parties.”

Cicciotta spoke with a strong poetic emotion.
“I am happy to hear that things are not so bad
with you. I wonder whether we can continue
to experience this balloney reality together or

XVII.

you have pressing affairs on the other side of
eternity. I am not sure I understand the phone
thing. Can you do Skype? Can we continue
to hang out for the rest of, well, should I say

time?” John C tried to explain it to her. “It’s
like this. There is no such thing as time, and
everything happens at once in a gizillion scales
and dimensions, and we sort of follow the flow.

XVIII.

The flow is the most difficult thing to catch.
It’s like a fruit that grows in a seedling that
has already become a seed. I would like to
continue to discuss with you. Yet something

tells me that we shall always be friends, no
matter what happens in this dimension or the
other. You’re my spiritual buddy, we are one
in a Pompidou connection. Thanks for that.

XIX.

In the past days, or all eternity, I have been
in my own version of the Murakamian well.
There, I have watched the people of this or
other dimensions sprout and vanish as if they

were fungi. I have become a mould myself.
I have read the book of history, and decided
that it’s really very complicated, and that I
need more time to get my wave around it.

XX.

I’ve also gone back and explored the emotions
of all the people that I have affected when
meeting them. It’s a kind of kaleidoscope
of zapping life intensity. I buzzed from one

touch to the next, and I came to conclude that
largely the influence that I have had on others
in my tweeny life has been positively charged.
I wanted to say thanks for putting up with me.”