A wager, huh? Funny.

    “You must think very lowly of me, then.”

    “He’s run out of secrets, philosopher. What else could you possibly learn from him?”

  I scoff and it finally reverts to a stable shape, at least in my mind. It reminds me of the ancient Egyptians setting their first imaginary boundaries for the goddess Hathor in the lines of a boulder. But it’s nothing so grand. It’s tiny and ugly and common, just like Rose said. A silly sandy bird with glistening brown claws perched on a trembling metal swing.

  There are still a few threads I haven’t tied together, concerning the beginning. I probably won’t, ever. I’ll get to the brief end of my humanity at some point and wallow in the city just like the rest. Oh, and won’t the city rejoice to have me. Knowing my heart can’t understand and I won’t be able to solve the riddle, no matter how close I am to it.

  I’ll be stuck.

  But I’m quite alive for now. I’ve been so for a while. And I wonder, how do spinning particles generate consciousness?

    “Bring me along when you leave to see the old woman,” it suggests with nerve. Quite the nerve, indeed. Think I’ll open this fucking cage for you?

  So you can swallow me whole.

    “Why?”

    “I’ll help you however I can. I’ll tell you if she lies. You’ll trust me, then.”

    “The old woman wouldn’t lie.”

  Divinity wouldn’t sabotage its saints. That’s what you’re thinking and you’re right, of course. But she’s seen me once before - probably remembers me. Not often does someone reach her place under the frozen-in-time comet. Begging for secrets of light-to-dark transformation. So, she might refuse me and dismiss me with a wave of her hand, as she did then. She’ll say I’m not worthy.

  You’re on the wrong side, philosopher, she told me. Trying to make excuses where there are none. Who are you defending? You see, defence never crossed my mind. Not until I heard her say it. 

  That’s right, dear reader, in the sense of classical literature, I’m an antagonist. But you’re smart. You’ve probably picked up on it long ago.

    “You can’t know that.”

    “How could lies benefit her? She’s been out there for thousands of years. She’s in the middle of the rupture.” Right about now, I sound as if I’m defending her. I don't doubt her. Not when no matter the landscape the in-between pulls out of my mind, it disappears near her cave. As if she can just melt it away and keep her desert. “She’s seen it all, I’d reckon.”

  “She might be more like you than she lets on. She’s a gatekeeper of sorts. But maybe she hasn’t made up her mind about what she’s keeping. Or if she hopes it to heal. ”

  “Don’t you think I’ve tried?” I shake my head. “I think I’m still trying but no one knows how to heal Lilian. I don’t think he knows it himself. I doubt he would want it, anyway.”

  The bird hops, almost as if pausing to think.

    “Say, what will you do with that?”

  I turn to look at my black hole friend, hanging out in a corner of the room. Bending verticality into a barely noticeable swirl.

    “No clue. Couldn’t leave it in the city.”

    “Bring it here if you don’t have use for it.”

  The black whole quickly bridges the distance between us and hovers above the cage like a trained thing. I wonder if it has any sort of individual stream of thought or if it takes from some kind of creepy collective mind. A beehive of endless connections.

  If I take the bird into the desert, maybe the old woman will give me a chance, my wicked mind says. The harpies snicker. 

    “Do you have a use for it?” It reminds me, still peering up at me, unmoving and completely focused.

    “No.”

    “I’ll eat it, then.”

  You can’t have the world without the movement of chaos. Eliminating it would eliminate us. It’s hard to think about the order of the universe. It’s even harder to imagine it awaken into some sort of awareness. No, but really. How could surges of energy and millions and millions of particles suddenly look upon themselves as a whole?

  How can you sleep at night, reader?

  Part of being a philosopher is accepting probability. The odds aren’t in my favour. You can probably tell our adventure in the in-between doesn’t hold a pretty end in store for us. But there wouldn’t be any theories or depth if fellows like Nietzsche and Baudelaire hadn’t returned from the brinks of madness. If Rilke hadn’t been so taken with Apollo. And Sappho by singular beauty itself.

  The inspiration of the transcendental.

  So, I take my chances and open the flimsy cage door. The bird perches lightly on my thumb. Its form wavers again as it investigates the back of my hand. Eventually, it wraps around my wrist and makes its way up my arm. Scaly and cold and venomous, it coils around my shoulders as a black desert snake.

  It extends itself above my head, into the air and unfastens its dark jaws. Without a sound, it snaps shut, swallowing the swirl of space. And so, with a dash of irony, the man’s gone beyond himself and his personal history. He’s a trace, bent backwards and tied into the very beginning.

  Beyond the tick of time and the expanse of existence.

    “This is your ghost, then,” it comments on its own form with a whispering tongue. Comes back down, twisting its body to face me. “The darkest of philosophers you fancy yourself. But you’re not. Not while you’re so afraid of the answers.”

    “I don’t want answers.”

  I zip up my leather case and turn off the desk lamp. The oak trees are massive immobile shadows through the lacy curtain.

    “And, what then?”

    “Everything. I want everything.”

  I’ll crack the universe open like an egg on a kitchen countertop.

  And, then? Well, afterwards, I don’t quite know. I’m not sure I can think that far. I’m reluctant to. Maybe I’ll go on a vacation, too. Sit on a park bench and watch snow falling in the dead of night. Learn a recipe that doesn’t involve inter-dimensional ingredients. Or do nothing at all.