There was once a poem so long that it stretched from the heart of the interior all the way to the coast. It was an important work, an epic that spun histories of an ancient and mystical people.

I have met a lovely and shapely girl in the countryside who was accompanying her parents on a "constitutional holiday" rather than a vacation (at least, that's how they termed it).

They will come, the sorrows with their brutalities and humiliations, their executioner's masks; their shrill and baying mobs. They will nestle in the continuum of time, immovable, become part of the world that spins and all of the scars on all of the skins will flare with the knots of their history, with an honest and gnashing recursion.

It's more than a perception, if anything it's a rift, torn open by the actions of all who have occupied spaces before us. A leper squatted here, mute with the impediment of stigma, no longer seen as any parts human but all parts disease; a king lay there, drunk with the pleasures of a thousand concubines, tormented by those of his court who lust for thrones; here's the place a suicide had her final deep blue pulse of thought: the earth was touched by each one, time and space covered them equally with touch, memorised their delicious bodies and filled itself with the intentions of their spirit.

In a universe of universes, everything remains causal. (One cannot find anything in a universe of universes that does not have a relationship with things within a universe of universes.)