I don’t know...But I been told...A finite system...Ain’t got no soul... --Led Zepplanet

A finite number of particle arrangements means the arrangement of particles within a finite patch must be duplicated an infinite number of times. The metaverse is the result. That was the prevailing theory. The testable known.

I just happened to be an unexpected variable in the equation. A factor that became the factor. Call me Y. Way down on the list of known unknowns. The one before divine purpose. The contested variable that gets all the attention.

I’m kind of an afterthought…literally. Thought, then me. I’m the semantic morass of ‘existence.’

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

Can reality be expressed?

The what of what.

Is it possible for language to explain the infinite? Especially given the limits of particle configurations that a biological unit can extrude in speech, writing and even thought.

Still.

Seems unlikely.

Until.

You try to unknow everything.

That’s what I became. The ultimate regression, back to the point-blank of absolute nothing. Particle purgatory.

Before before.

That’s when you unknow it. The purity, the great splendor of possibility. It is really the dynamo, the underlying infinite. The one that is not one because numbers have no meaning. Nor words. Only presence.

I am not an answer. Not a future. Only a factor.

Like all good strange attractors.

In the moment. Known. Unknown. The why in alive.