Their pastime is "strife," Rémi says, the kind that deserves derision.

But, I ask him, can you truly know an entire history within moments? Are you so trusting of your own lackluster eyesight that you believe the first images that imprint themselves upon you to be valid?

There's a difference there, he says, comprehend it is incomprehensible. It is too easy to excuse, to craft a series of why's and why-not's; all validity will always be unknowable.

They are the ones who stare past the three heads, he says, because they would rather fear wicked beasts than become one; shut all of your mouths and open all of your eyes. If you want to walk around as a Master, he says, fucking do it, and don't gasp when they sic the Spanish spiders upon your inexplicable flesh.



The world collapses in the face of idiocy, Rémi says, but it disappears when intelligence comes a-calling.