Names left far behind and flat, where from your present place you watch them rest held to both a planet and a lane. Once I was so-and-so of such-and-such the stories go, told once twice thrice and shared out here; flung back and forth along the fissures in the not-quite-cold where we all rest. Not to each other, no; rather, then, to the empty spots, where (were we all where and when we're from) there would be stars, to light our revels with their darkspace flame.
Sir Lancelot and Pigling Bland will shoot at dice with Knight Rider and The Silver Bullet Band. Salazar and Mohammed fence with words while Gilgamesh watches Keyser Soze dance, all of us waiting here in a small whirlpool of nothingness for the next round of this our shared universal game of murder with that ever-loving maiden known as chance.
Most of us have no names and smile over at these who do. They all will learn as we all have, to let the designations slide into the rifts and times they'll all slip through in game and feel the perturbations ripple out into the not-quite-night, a luminescence in the ether tide of information (and lack thereof) that makes up this our newfound world.
Somewhere back there (if back can be) there are worlds and lanes with holes in them, however slight, where each and every one of us (no matter how we may convince, cajole or argue with ourselves the other case) once lived. Those gaps will have slid closer with our passing, yes, the edges knit; but information cannot ever perfect be, no fiction plug such incisions tight, nor erasure reach into each soul we touched without a sometime puzzled look and wondering in bed at night as to what ever happened to...? but there it stops. Because to go past that point it needs a name and those we've left, wedged tightly into each home's frame of space and time. Shed around us, slipped off and out, we stepped from under and jumped away, anchors firmly held by physics but their chains cut loose. The names, you see, the names are key! not just the names, identity - for if the world cannot be sure that someone has transgressed The Law, then how in fact can it enforce the same?
With that small loophole, around we dart.
With that small knowledge, the war began.
With that small missing rule, the escape was planned-
So now we wander, around and 'tween. Sometimes returning, always unseen, sometimes we even stand there where we were, our frames frozen in our minds, wondering what would happen if this time we didn't make the choice and held on tightly to ourselves, didn't take the step sideways, walk into the wall?
Each time, we press space to Continuum - and the worlds continue in their dance.
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