There is a girl who sits at a tower at the end of the world in a wooden room.

It is ten feet by ten feet this box, a square of polished oak and pine and redwood from lightning-struck trees. The walls are perfectly blank: the floor is complex with patterns of spiral fractals. She is seated at the center of the room as she has been for seconds (minutes (days (centuries))), she is seated in a cross of light from the windows centered on each of the four walls.

She is seated in a web of silk, for there are skeins strung across the chamber, quivering, pulled tight from their iron rings set into the (stone (schist (mica (marble)))) walls. Charms of silver, battered tin, worked steel, moulded iron hang from these lengths. Tiny bells, tiny charms, tiny chimes, tiny tiny tiny, and there are one thousand of these, still in the calm air of the apocalypse room, unstirring. There is no wind. There is no change. There is little air, and her hair, an aura, floats around her head unbound.

She (sits (meditates (is nothing))) in the room. When she plucks a string, rainbows rise from the skeins.

Somewhere below, cards click in and out of (sequence (sync (order))) in the computer at the end of the world.

She has been seated there (minutes (days (centuries))).

She is sitting there (now (never)).

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