I've got it you see, the destruction of destiny, this knowing of how it feels to die again and again even though I'm still alive. Crushed by a truck, poisoned by antifreeze, the whimper of cancer and the suicide by gun, over and over the broken hand, the burnt whimper of acid despair, my avarice transfixed to ash, myself this pestilent puzzle, he of the nameless name, fading alongside the dragon that showed me the sky and the rift, the poise whose gravity is the shivering nothing, this way in which at one's finger tips is the calculus of an almighty void.
Mr. Fox, when it blows up in your face what will you say, hmm?
Sorry, I suppose. That's what you'd expect, I guess.