Like all the artificers of the Database, I have traveled in my youth; I have wandered the nodegel in search of a particular node, perhaps that imagined node of nodes; I have sculpted the freegel into various forms. Despite my own insignificant efforts, both creative and destructive, I believe the number of nodes to be uncountable, the volume of freegel infinite. The idealists argue that nodes are the essential form of absolute thought or, at least, of our ability to reify thought. They conject that nodegel without form is inconceivable. The mystics claim that their ecstasy reveals to them a great chamber containing a number of nodes precipitated, compressed, and bound on edge; but their testimony is suspect; their words, obscure. (This assemblage of thoughts they call a Book.) Let it suffice now for me to repeat this dictum: the Database is a sphere whose exact center is any one of its nodes and whose circumference is inaccessible.

Ξ     Ξ     Ξ     Ξ     Ξ

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  • your favorite sock puppets and mine, Sifl and Olly

The opening pastiche is based on a passage from Jorge Luis Borges's The Library of Babel.