XXIV.

Zot. Chubby pulls the plug. ‘Snap
out of it, Mr John C’. The Borovoe
download has long finished, the left
over files are sql-dumped on this

floppy drive’. In the % identity
that’s left on Titan, the hologram
flickers, and the happenings inside
the black hole take over. Time to

XXV.

Take over the Precision Tower. Medusa
is frightened and angry, she advances
towards Mount Olympus. The length of
her alignment with her stars is unknown.

She runs, as an individual, as a woman,
as a dramatic figure in an advancing
sketch. Now words are falling over into
the abyss. ‘I must confront Zeus – he’s’

XXVI.

‘the devious architect of this injustice.’
A thousand mobile phones appear in the air,
and swipe her to the left. She picks up
where she left off. ‘I must resume my %

identity, losing track of my ideals and
my memory is what chauvinist Zeus wants.
So the king of gods swoops down, ending
her ascent. Medusa shivers, ‘My rage, cold’

XXVI.

‘bloodless. I need strength, yet all I want
is to give up. My knees would rise to rival
pyramids.’ Zeus smiles. ‘My darling, little
woman. There is an ocean between us, and

what you need to do is pause and crouch,
cover your mind with yellow double duvets,
let your heart shit your compassion out,
we in Olympus frown on your little insurgency.’

XXVII.

‘I am most disappointed in you. You should
have died a witch at the hands of my half-breed
son, and be done with it. All this wondrous
name-calling, pow-wow spinning of poetic

narcissism is most unwelcome – you’re just a
voice in the maelstrom of twittering and face
booking. You’ve been swiped. Your % identity
is all spent, you have shed your beauty, hence’

XXVIII.

‘you are no longer part of this world, your
diagram has long been cancelled, because no
one is watching. You’ve been misled. I know
you think you have some sort of power in your

mind and some sort of agility in your legs,
and yet can you see that cloudless sky, that
Acropolis of power, it kisses heaven. You do
not belong there, you belong in the muck.’

XXIX.

‘Wake up, from your hateful fantasises, all
the bones of the slain surround you, the
authority lies in the sky and you may never
reach it, my power spreads idly below, your

blood may be hot, and coming out of your skin
now, but soon, with time, it will be dried
like painted hair on your perished skull.
The snakes in your heart will be fed with my’

XXX.

‘landmark thunderbolts… you see Medusita,
you are a gargantuan failture, you have built
a fortress in your heart to guard yourself
against the sweeping machismo of the world.

what a fool you have been, your place is
not in this room, or another room, your place
has been erased from the floppy drive, the
precision Tower is multi-threshering your’

XXXI.

‘time, your ideas, your shadow. I rob you now
of your shadow, because I can, because I am
mighty, because I am king of heaven, and because
you do not deserve a waking life. I condemn

you to a comatose existence at the bottom
of yonder garden, in a shallow grave, unheard,
speechless, robotic, wiped clean from the
board of wild-life, from the natural world.’

XXXII.

‘Your memory will be erased, the memory of you
shall also be spent, and in a thousand years,
while your sleepless haunting continues, I shall
review the best way forward, whether to let you

arise from your purple tomb and let you crawl
at my feet, or to unlock the wrath of all whirl fucking
winds, and spin you to crash onto a volcano, or a
half-decent man, who – I will ensure – will subdue you.’

XXXIII.

‘Wake me up, John C, from this nightmare.’ Chubby
is stunned to hear of The Nation’s authoritarian
wars against the spirit and the flesh. A gigantic
bomb has wiped out a section of the multi-verse.

John C is only half-human now, the wires have taken
over him. And while the computer wires take over
his mind, Chubby drinks tea, alone in her consciousness
that in the real world outside that Titan window

XXXIV.

The debate between Ahura Mazda and herself is still
raging, and the Griffinese ships are readying themselves
for yet another plunder and sack, and pirates of the
multiverse are roaming in search of treasure to hoard.

In the darkness, she weeps at the sight of the methane
boils bursting from the lake below, and she knows that
dying in the snow a long time ago may have been a good
choice. And yet, looking at the mountains she is somehow

XXXV.

reassured. In the black hole, the legend continues.
The multi-verse spins and seems to burn and spear the
reflections of atoms into a ghost of purpose. Will you
sit with me on the Acropolis of Corinth, looking past

the ridge, to the advancing waters, lapping now here,
now there – until the winged horse will fly once more,
and the dolphins may once more rescue guitar players?
Aphrodite, come back and continue wandering bright.

XVIII.

Enter Dolos. D “I am not just making copies, I sell
the Truth, or not at all. I am a spirit of the evening.
I deal in information, extracting sunbeams out of
cucumbers, straight out of the University of Laputa.

Believe you me, things are predetermined. The illusion
of history is a grand illusion. My master Prometheus
taught me the tricks of the trade. Where there is fire,
… there’s a lot of smoke. What doesn’t kill you, makes”

XIX.

“you a liar. So Perseus is secretely plotting to kill,
to see the real version of himself. He must have
run out of clay. His friend in polyamory knows better.”

Enter Gorgon, deep in confusion and despair.
G “My schizo mind goes faster, and faster.
Let time slide on. What do I do with this lump
of meat [ holds a severed, bleeding penis ] ?”

XX.

“Is it evening, now? So soon? The clouds have
not parted ways. My ego fades at the sight of
interior doom. I have castrated Perseus, the liar.
He tried to kill me, the fool. I have seen worse

in my stub of life. I am amazed at the similarity
between the man I loved and this deceitful monster.
[ sees the spirit of guile ] Dolos, what are you doing here?”
D “Nothing, my friend, I am just painting a picture of”

XXI.

“the moon in a garden run by the slow burning energy
of Numinous Selene, her wavy kisses and crafty spells.”
G “I fantasized about a youth – languid-eyed and loving.
This forest is haunted. Athena cast me aside. Poisedon

raped me. I summoned my wits. I embraced a hero.
This is my reward [ shows the penis to Delos ].
I entered this wood alone. Alone, I must proceed.
Delos, tell me the truth. Are wild animals sleeping now?”

XXII.

“What am I to do with this bled-out piece of truth?
My eyes are straying, my hands tremble. Some god
of affliction has given me this night to grieve. When
remedy is exhausted, so is grief. I am deathless.”

D “I myself have lost all friends. I have been banned
by all the band of brothers that I used to associate with.
It is so late now, we are all beyond redemption, just
waiting for Nemesis to pluck snakes from our poisoned”

XXIII.

“breasts. I wonder where we’ll be tomorrow. This century
holds true to my work. Trees face long-time tremors.”
G “I will challenge you, Dolos. You are here to trick
me, just as Perseus did. I can see through you.

You are trying to get something from me. But what is it?
Power? Money? Pussy? Predestination? I fear I cannot
tolerate another man’s skullfuckery. I have decided to
turn against all of the male kingdom. Slime-moulds beware.”

XI.

In the play – onwards towards mushrooms and pills.
Enter Mnemnosyne. M “If I were to be born again,
I would be a private investigator. I think Tokyo
would do. But as it stands, I am the Goddess of

memory, Perseus. I have come to remind you of
what truly happened. Do you remember what you
did when you first met the Gorgon? I don’t take
sides. But it would be desirable for you to get”

XII.

“your facts straight. I am so tired of fact-checking
all the liars and tricksters of this world. How many
lies did you tell to get by? Surely you have forgotten.
I am here, I can remind you of all the half-truths,

the full lies, the screaming-your-pants-off type hubris,
and the mostly true but badly spun, Arachnidous lies.
If you are not disgusted with yourself, you will be
after I am done with you. Perseus, do you remember?

XIII.

P “I honestly don’t remember. True, I have spun a few
stories. But surely, I think everyone does. We all
tell a few tall tales in order to survive. Don’t you?
Doesn’t memory have a conscience? I am so tired of this

life, you have no idea. Athena wants one thing, Zeus
wants another. My mother came out of her coffin in the
ocean to nag me all my life. Gorgon has certain expectations,
the other women in my life have others. Have you considered”

XIV.

That it may be a little hard to please Andromeda? She’s
all high and mighty with her princess thing, and she still
has not gotten over the thing that I have slipped into bed
with Medusa. I mean, it’s been so many years since we

fucked. Honestly. And ok, I do still love her. So what
am I supposed to tell her? That I don’t love the Gorgon?
Honestly, I don’t know what is true or false any longer.
So memory, now, indeed. Do tell all about the Truth. I am”

XV.

“Ready.” M “But in this version of the myth, you’re just
a puppet thrown around by bullies. Or are you? The innocent
hero-child? You’ve got some nerve. I have daughters, you
know. And some of them are infatuated with you. You! The

little shit thinks he can get away with anything! Not under
my watch, you’re not! I am so angry with you, I can’t even
speak. I can’t articulate a sentence. I am here to remind
you of your sins. You went to the Gorgon with full intention”

XVI.

“to kill, that is one thing. You never did fall in love with
her, you half-hearted moron. You’ve just been biding your
time for lack of spine. You could not bring yourself to slay
her because you are a coward, not anything else. You know this.”

P “Where’s your evidence? And by the way, your daughters like
me because I have lovely sandals, because I am a hero. I have
a great ride. Granted, not as good a Bellerophon. For some
reason people mix us up. I’ve always preferred flying by myself”

XVII.

“I am not ashamed of my deeds. I have a pretty reflection, any
Pre-Raphaelite will tell you. I am brave, I am honest. I have
fought my way up, like everyone else – despite all odds. I wasn’t
born into a love nest. My life has been suffering and blood

spilling. Have mercy on me, Mnemosyne. Goddamit, your name is
hard to pronounce. I think I might go out with Erato one of these
days. She’s got a cute ass. I am not so very interested in her
lyrics, but she does seem to have a voice. So rare, these days.”

I.

D “The question of who or what your father is,  is
utterly irrelevant. You are my son, that’s all
you need to know. I’ve worked hard to make you
a man, the right man. Come now, then – let it be.”

P “Am I the son the Zeus? Is this true? I feel it
in my heat. Tell me. Don’t lie to me. Not again.”
D “What a question. Are you asking for Truth and
Beauty? Are you the son of Zeus? What nonsense.”

II.

D “If you insist. I will tell you the truth. Then
don’t come whining to me with feelings of discomfort.
You asked for it… so here is the true truth: it was
a shower of gold that took me in my sleep, and

delivered a dream. I was happy to be ravished so,
I did not notice a thing. I woke up and I was pregnant
with you. Your father has always had a thing for
metamorphosis. He is the God of Gods. Enough.”

III.

“This is really demeaning – Perseus. At your age,
asking awkward questions. Bring me the head of
this ugly she-monster that you were meant to kill
a long time ago. She seduced Poiseidon and got

what was coming. Be quick about it. That is the
price for what you asked me. I have worked hard
to get you to where you are. You were supposed to
be a hero. This is the end of this conversation.”

IV.

Exit Danae. P “Now I am confused. I love to kill.
It is my skill. I am known around the world for
it. By she is my love. My mother is such a hag.
I must consult with my newly acquired father. He

will know what to do. He is God.” Enter Zeus.
Z “After so long, we are reunited again, my son.
What is your name again? Fetch me a glass, we
can drink to this. But I must rest. Chasing

V.

pussy is exhausting. I love a good vagina.
But it never learns. You must be one of my
bastards. Which one was your mother? I am
tired. Where’s my water? I don’t see much

of me in you. Stand upright. Come here.
Don’t stoop. Do you love chariot-races?
What wouldn’t I give for one of those new
Helios chariots. Their sun is so bright and

VI.

shiny. My lightning bolts would look good
on one. So, tell me, which thunder model
do you prefer?” P “I am really not sure”
Z “You’re not my son, then. You spent far

too much time with women, I guess. What
do you believe in? Feminism and all that
crap? Goddamit. When am I ever going to
have a son? There’s nothing in you of me.”

VII.

Z “You’re a puppet in her lascivious dreams.
Where are you from? Did you come from the
mountains or the sea? Do you have memory of
anything? Don’t you see that you are lost?”

P “I am not lost, nor am I found. You can
answer some of your questions yourself. Am
I your son or not? Can you give me a straight
answer? I cannot search for truth any longer.”

VIII.

Z “So you think you came from Zeus’s mighty
cock? What have you got to prove it? One look
at you, and I understand you’re a zero, not
a hero. You have been trained in unworthy

skills. You don’t have that spunk, proper of
a God. Be gone, now. You are nothing but a
freak. I love you not. You are not my son.
I refused to endorse any cum left-overs. Ah!”

IX.

So Cicciotta intervenes, because it is slightly
embarassing to have so many Griffinese ships
streaming out of the black hole, and to the
sound of Philip Glass, there must be a Dalai

Lama talking about mani or money somewhere.
Tierra Madre has gone to sleep. In her dream,
Desert Storm and the Spartan have started
copulating. Let me draw a picture. This is

X.

What we call a exor-narcissistic cosmic fuck.
The Spartan attacks, Desert Storm recoils.
“Thou unravished bride of quietness…”
The Spartan says  (with the coolness of a

warrior on the shore of a long-lost time)
he says: “I shall be cumming all over this
black hole. I do as Spartans do. I win battles.
Come and get some. Come and get our weapons.”

LXI.

M “I cannot drink this water, though. I loiter
on the steps and pray.” K “Mother, in your
honour, this epic has been written in byte code.”
O ” As we tether toward the event horizon, un

certainty is greater. Hesperos calls us to dinner.
E “Strange parallelisms, the cult of Chtlhu – what
happens next? ‘What mad pursuit? What struggle to
escape?’ ” Exeunt the lot of ’em – Enter golden Danae

LXII.

Perseus sits brooding under the light of a tree bulb,
whose roots clutch the corpse of a sculptor, on
a verdant slope of Mount Maenalus, in Arcadia.
D “The mountains yonder call you to great deeds,

my darling son. You were born to slay evil serpent
girls, make them your trophies – ride towards the
moon, deliver a killing blow to the ugliness in the
oceans, show the white whale its tomb and be king.”

LXIII.

“And so, why are you here? Paralyzed under a tree?
Unable to fulfill your destiny? You are my son, not
some beggar in the street. What pretty whore has
swallowed your balls, now, darling son? Speak, now.”

P “Mother. I must confess. Many years have passed.
I did not kill Medusa. I loved her since, for what
she is.” M “Nonsense. Look at all the signs of high
history. The paintings, the tales about you. You are”

LXIV.

“the hero that delivered us from Athena’s monster.
Have you failed to perform your duty? Have you
challenged your destiny? No-one would commit such
hubris. Come now, tell me the truth. My diary

does not lie. And in the diary, I wrote here –
look – that you did slay the dragon – beg pardon –
the Gorgon. You bagged the head in the wallet and
boom! You’ve been bandying it about ever since.”

LXV.

“Are you drunk? Or stoned? Now speak or I will be
cross. And then you shall have to cut my head to
shut me up. What nonsense, you are saying. I can’t
believe my ears. You are the hero, the son of Danae.”

P “Mother. Who is my father? Tell me truly, I have
lost hope, I am confused. I have dreams. I am so
angry, and yet I do not know the reason. I think I
am mad. You once told me that my father was a God.”

LXVI.

“And then you said that I did not have a father. And
then, another time, you said that – that fish-monger
that you slept with for a few years was my father.
This troubles me. It has something to do with my

identity. I think I do not know who I am anymore.
And I realized that I cannot love a woman because
I do not have a core, or a heart, or a soul, or an
identity. Curse you, mother, for lying to me. Now…”

LI.

G “Until you solve the question of your birth – Perseus –
you shall be incapable of loving. ” exits the Gorgon
P (alone) “Accursed am I, and no sense of humour. How
Greek of me. Who are we? Are we clones of our ancestors?

My consciousness is a liar, my unconscious a freak. White
clouds buffering thoughts unknown, fast disappearing. I
will be a cloud, then. What we call a demi-god is only half a lie.
Half and half, committed to nothing. I refuse to be led on

LII.

By my mother’s lies. I have no father. Not man, not god, not
any other liar. I shall confront her. I can’t confront her.
I am a fat whale on land, I can’t navigate this desert.”
There is too much grief inside this shell-shocked imagination.

But now Chubby shifts in her imaginary seat in the black
hole auditorium. She is worried and angry. Being pulled
from history and thrown in a black hole is most unpleasant.
She thinks about it. Since the uncertainty principle does not

LIII.

allow the values of both the field and the rate of change
to be exact, space is never empty. It has a rate of minimum
energy, called the vacuum subject to quantum jitters, with
particles and fields quivering in and out of existence.

Chubby feels jitterish, her mind is in a vacuum. Can
consciousness exist in a black hole? It is confusing to be
so close to John C. He and she and the play are both dead
and alive. Desert Storm feels an itch, the Spartan is asleep.

LVI.

He snores, like the thunder of a thousand Persian soldiers
advancing on the pass of Thermopylae. Vacuum fluctuations
in John C’s mind. All of this is strangely familiar. “Dammit,
This black hole is giving me a headache”, Chubby thinks aloud.

“How long do we have to be in suspension? This reminds me of
the Murakamian well. I’ve waited for ages down that clogged
drain.” John C knows what he is talking about. “My computer
was destroyed but the memory cells are still floating in the

LVII.

solar-system wide web. Too many downloads floating around.
So many sick thoughts of planets these days. And it’s all up
in the air. This black hole Murakamian well experience is
different though, it is a collective mindfuck, a tour de

force in the collective deadconscious. Some effort must be
put in following a plot thread.” “There is no freaking plot”,
intervenes Monkey, still suffering from separation grief
from Gawain and from a purpose of living. “Life is a series

LVIII.

of random events. Space-time is not flat, and I refuse to
sanction any art that pretends to follow a pre-ordained
structure. Mr Mamet can eat straw for all I care. It’s
an amoral thing to do. Not enough Becketts and Joyces.

Aristotle stopped the trade so long ago, I am still sea
sick. And structure is very much a purpose second term,
before you get sacked for lack of popularity. Mr Yeats’s
expressionism, two paintings after meals, says the doctor.

LIX.

The play continues, if you please. “ὥστ᾽ ἔγωγε, καθάπερ οἱ
ποιηταί, δέομαι ἀρχόμενος τῆς διηγήσεως Μούσας τε καὶ Μνημοσύνην
ἐπικαλεῖσθαι.” Enter Mnemosyne, daughter of Uranus and Gaia,
Memory’s personification, mother of the nine Muses. Surprise.

She was taken by none other than her nephew Zeus. And so she
speaks. M “Zeus loves, Zeus talks, Zeus walks. And then he
forgets. But I do not. Daughters, stop prancing around.
I seek revenge: I may have drank from the wrong fountain.

LX.

You are goddesses, you give the Arts their rightful place
in the multi-verse. Kalliope, you are the brightest, inspire
me to epic journeys on the far side of model-dependent realism.
Ourania, show me the way among the burning gases and the waves,

the plasmas and the gravity of it all. Fixed luminous light in
my mind’s eye is not enough to stop this grief. Erato, let your
words dance, let my spirits be soothed by your loveliness. This
fountain, the hoof’s delay. Pegasus once stood here and kicked.”

XVII.

the Archive of Myth bubbles up, Ariadne
is in pain. Time must have a stop. Where
is Monkey? The siege of Candia. Welcome,
refugees. Dog fart, rabbit squeak, God

through Russell Brand. Timelessness,
dream-Shakespeare. Tempest-consciousness,
Know Thyself. All those monsters; Tauros,
deviations. Egoes in broken mirrors.

XVIII.

Ariadne pauses on the screen, the stars
in the image burst out laughing. So bright.
The Archive of Myth on drugs. What an
experience. “When the doors of perception

are cleansed, everything will appear
as it is, infinite” And some do it by
meditation, some by walking, some by
mescaline, some by action, some by

XIX.

dream. Ariadne, you just go ahead and
push the button. Push the button, goddamit!
Incest, betrayal, abandonment. Lost.
Identity crisis. Monsters are born of

absolute spiritual evil. It exists.
A potent lamia. A curse. Ariadne’s curse.
What is the nature of her curse? Betrayal
of the closest relatives, death by fire.

XX.

The gravitational influence of planets
on cells. Electrons, atoms, spiritual
waves. “I need a hero. I want a destiny.
The monster within me. The fiend in the

mirror. The demon inside the child.”
Salvation through action, magic, and
doubt. Fear, heartache. Defeat in victory.
Neurotic patients burst an iron ring around

XXI.

the heart. Possession is a structural
alteration. Public personalities possessed
by shadows. Possessed by animas. Naming
is reincarnation. Reincarnation of Gods

in planets. Chronos. So too did Chronos
take Uranus unawares. The discarded genitals.
Destruction of civilization by earth-quake.
Destruction of spirituality by multi-verse

XXII.

shake.Touch, energy transfer. Spiritual
transformation. Zeus is dead. Dead by
transformation. Purification by water.
Cynicism is anti-matter. The Goddess

epiphany: the creation and recreation of
Myth. Cosmic union of all beings. Conflict
is dynamic. 4000 years of history, dealing
with threats. Deconstruction of stories.

XXIII.

Palaces of creation. Centres of Myths.
Myth as civilization. Everything flows.
Magic energy stays, it accumulates.
Holiness by creation. Ariadne returns

to Labrys harbour. She clings to form
but a wooden Buddha cannot go through
fire. She’s anima-possessed. Charged.
She cannot stay. I send you unto this

XXIV.

world as sheep amidst the wolves. I
don’t want to leave, she says. Earth
quakes are the end. Immortality is
real. You just have to push the damn

button! “I realize now that all my
existence is a delusion. There is nothing
but this island in the sea, Labrys Harbour.”
Way before and after everything. Time

XXV.

is an illusion. Waking up to the timeless
island. Put on the kettle. The multi-verse
is compressed. All time and all happening
at once. The gravitational mass of a body

is equal to its inertial mass. The displace
ment of spectral lines towards the red
can be traced. The potential is there.
Gravitational, time collapse. History

XXVI.

and identity are annulled. The X looms.
Everything is simultaneously true. Let
go of the meat. Karma will dissolve.
We are such stuff as wormholes are made

on. The Archive of Myth is palace of
memory. It collapses into nothing. “…
of seed-time or harvest, of the reapers
bending over the corn, or the grape

XXVII.

gatherers threading through the vines,
of the grass in the orchard made white
with broken blossoms or strewn with
fallen fruit: of these we know nothing,

and can know nothing.” From such profundity,
the depth of the Well, the length of the
multi-verse, the scope of consciousness.
Ariadne is in bed. She’s asleep. She dreams.

VIII.

Ariadne sits up, emotion’d, eager to speak.
“I remember Dionysus’s kisses, still burning
on my skin. No. If I’m honest, I don’t. Not
right now. For a short while, I felt a purpose.

Not an important cause, not a revelation,
but the midnight curse of Finnegan’s wake.
I was summoned to appear before Death, I
made a plea for forgiveness, and I lost.”

IX.

Then Chubby tells the story of the download
and the infotechnician who had merged with
his own data. In this tale, there once was a
young cadet whose heroism was cut short

by the jaws of a whale: he was dismembered.
Chubby makes a mental note about Fortune
Lobo. His death by digestion was, by Zeus, most
El-Greco-esque, and yet his spirit lingered.

X.

Ariadne is aching to tell the story of
her revelation, and yet dry words fail her.
Every moment she thinks herself to be
steady, to have finally coped with the

idea of having walked the tight-rope walk,
her mind starts to wander, and the continuity
of karma is discontinuous and inaccessible
to memory. She is wrestling with her own

XI.

Rebirth. We are all able, at least potentially,
to remember the facts of previous lives, and
the rites of transformation. Young Fortune Lobo
was dismembered;  yet, like Osiris-Dionysus, he

came back as a field of green wheat. “Truly, the
blessed gods have proclaimed a most beautiful truth:
Death comes not as a curse, but as a blessing.” We
are surrounded by Big Mind, the mother of all facts.

XII.

Ariadne’s revelation is asleep. An idle lover,
here and there, looks inside the s’elf; but for
all the rest, the multi-verse, unfathomably
fair, is a darkened cave; chained, barking dogs

outside. Ariadne is now sober, and at peace
with herself. The star cluster she’s looking
at in the palm of her hand is exceptionally
bright. Lightlets at the bar, glowing irises.

XIII.

The numen, satellite of Mind, holds its
course. No deviations in sight. Smaller,
sapphirite starlets trick’o’treat in the
void, and the voices of ancestors shout.

Ariadne is resolute in her choice of
enduring whatever is coming. With edge
in desire she lunges into the mythical
space where Archives and galaxies merge.

XIV.

For every ritual of rebirth, Fortune Lobo’s
rising from the astro-gases, transcendent
as a green man, innocently wet in the well
of eternity, has a mystic value, it is the

action in which, you reader, and I, writer,
as spectators become involved – Bastian-like –
though our natures are not necessarily changed.
It is a dream in which the dreamer may be trans

XV.

formed. Ariadne’s deficit in the balance
of Pacioli is her own waterflea robbery. She
lost her soul at low barometer reading, and
that is a presage of bad weather. One became

two. She was born as human, turned into a Goddess,
and yet fell. She walked the tightrope walk in a
moment of deadliest peril, and without realizing
it, she forgot. And then she forgot that she

XVI.

had forgotten. On the self-same tree, two birds
perched, watching with invisible eyes the forces
of revelation at work. Chubby drinks from the
misty gases of Titan, Fortune Lobo sways as green

fuse in the winds of Planet Carnuntum. Ariadne
is deep in her own stew, cygnus-like, floating
in the drink she drank. The bar is empty. Outside,
a Philosophical Cat is about to embark on a mission.