This morning I got a “Facebook memory” from my long-ago high school friend. I wanted to reach out to her, but didn’t. Mind you, I graduated from high school almost fifteen years ago. Mind you, she’s dead.

When I imagine this friend now, I imagine her on the doctor’s inspection table, being told her ovarian cancer had a 20% survival rate. I only know that fact now (and isn’t everything we remember influenced by the future?) because my ballet teacher recently got diagnosed with the same stage of ovarian cancer. Her GoFundMe page relayed this brutal fact: by the time we feel any pain, it’s already too late.

By the time people become only Facebook memories, it’s hard to remember them except in their most glaring circumstances, in a doctor’s office where I wasn’t even present.

In her case, she lives on in this short piece of writing, my reflections of her now fact for the reader, when my memory of her is very much flawed, and only centered on my view of myself.

For, what else does a girl do in high school but relate the rest of the world to herself, first and foremost?

In high school, I didn’t know a thing about working memory, or death when we least expect it.

It’s not fair, perhaps, that this is what I think about when I think of her. She posted on Instagram two months before she died, saying: my body has changed so much because of chemo - “I don’t recognize myself in the mirror most days.” I thought of my lame attempts at diminishing my own bodily frame, even during the time in high school when I knew her. It’s like comparing apples and oranges. No: it’s like comparing a death sentence, on one hand, to an insecure white girl with a complex on the other. We were perhaps never going to be the same.

I wonder where she’d be now, had she lived longer. I wonder if I’d still see her social media posts and flip past them, or linger on them. If I’d see the version of herself she’d want me to see.

Or maybe that’s just me relating the rest of the world to myself, first and foremost.

When her sister posted she was dying, and to reach out now with any last words to her, I wrote a short, uninspiring paragraph - that I would miss her and remember her. But then I thought, she doesn’t need to hear from her long-lost “friend” on her deathbed. I was probably as self-centered then as I am now.

That’s perhaps not fair to myself, is it? Harsh, I guess. Looking back, I was probably right that she wouldn’t want to hear from me. But how would I know?

This morning, when I got my “Facebook memory”, I pressed “post”, to share it. Or maybe I didn’t.

What do you think I did?

It’s never too late, I suppose.

She deserves to be remembered, a phoenix out of her own ashes.

No matter how flawed memory is.

The wormhole radio chatter got weird. In and out came snippets of phrases, some from Star Central, but some were voices we recognized as ourselves. Many were about things that hadn't even happened yet. When orbiting a black hole's event horizon, it was speculated such things could happen.

Auditory and visual manifestations.

Some were nonsense, some weren't; some from the future; others tied into some possible future. Or even the past.

But murder?

This particular wormwire broadcast was as clear as it was disturbing:

"Be advised you are under arrest for murder until your return. You are to dispose of the body as per protocol and go for insertion into the window-worm home. There, you'll be taken into custody."

"What body?" I asked. "Who are they talking about? Us? Me?"

"Me?" Burke echoed.

"I mean, it's just you and me."

"And Abernathy," he added.

"He's cryo, though," I pointed out.

"Look, it's just a possible future, right?" he said nervously. "Only a possibility one of us is gonna kill the other."

"Possible? It's us, Burke! Impossible! No one's killing anybody. We like each other. We've been out for seven months and haven't had so much as a cross word, even before morning coffee."

"Morning," he laughed. "That's funny."

Within hours, however, Burke and I began mistrusting each other, albeit subtly. We began scrutinizing every decision, experimental step, and implied discovery. We second-guessed each other about implied hidden meanings in our conversations.

His politeness began to irritate me; and he didn't like the way I walked so heavily in our artificial-G, "clomping around," as he pointed out so constructively.

The black hole was spiraling our minds toward it, even as we circled it well beyond its event horizon.

Back home, we confused the hell out of the authorities during debriefing.

"No, I didn't kill Burke," I insisted to the Marshall. "I killed Abernathy before he killed Burke."

"Abernathy was in cryosleep!" the Marshall argued.

"Depends on your orbit inclination," I said. "You see Burke right there? Alive and well!"

"That's not Burke--that's Abernathy!"

"Yea, that son-of-a-bitch!" I went for his throat.

"Stop!" yelled the Marshall. "This'll be the third time you killed him!"

"Maybe for you!" I hollered back.

Poly lived happily in a 2-D world, her plane of life determined by three points: herself; her husband, Quad; and her little boy polygon, Trap. They were plain people living the plane life.

Quad was quite ordinary, all of his angles adding up to 360º. His were all righteous angles, but the ones that Trap had, although adding up to 360º, were skewed — two acute and two obtuse, and too dissimilar. So it goes with youth and naïvité.

When Trap grew older, he would sweep their plane for girls, and he often intersected with them. One day, however, he met "the 1," a lovely quadrilateral named Rhomba.

Rhomba liked Poly and Quad, but as her tangents with Trap increased in frequency, Poly felt she was being distanced from him. She knew what the shortest distance was, between the two of them, and she couldn't help but notice that intermediate points were beginning to define newly angled departures from the straight line. She began to see Rhomba as a strange attractor, leading Trap into fractal non-Euclidean indiscretions.

Quad, having such righteous angles, felt lines should not only be straight, but by the straight-and-narrow.

Perhaps Poly was too overbearing, a weightiness distorting their planar world. Such dents in the planar fabric caused each of them to circumnavigate, drawn to a strange Newtonian two-dimensional gravity. When Poly derived this coherency in her 2-D sensibility, she was pleased, as her family began to circle each other, approaching true intersections of mind.

But Rhomba added another dimension to the world — for Trap, anyway.

As their love deepened, they began to rise, that is, develop depth. Both Rhomba and Trap grew sides.

Rhomba did it first, since her angles were malleable. She experimented wildly with her body, pushing past 360º. She titillated her vertices. Her sides throbbed.

SHe also tried different religions. She joined the Parallelograms; she served at the altar of the Square. She even researched the very strange cult of Circles, which even Trap couldn't abide. In fact, when Romba massaged her vertices into her sides and became well-rounded, Trap could no longer follow her. His angles were what he felt made him, him.

Trap returned to the plane, descending into the common-sense reality determined by three points, yet was haunted by the possibilities. Could extensions of height and width determine self-actualization?

Poly regarded her son warily. Quad fretted. They knew such inclinations were a slippery slope (i.e., hazardous rise-over-run). She had known several friends, so tempted, who had vanished along what were theorized to be asymptotes.

Still, Trap wondered. How would his functions alter with other variables introduced--like ones of depth?

One day, a mysterious feature appeared on Poly's, Quad's, and Trap's plane. It began as a dot--a mere point. It began to grow. It widened. Radius and circumference enlarged exponentially, becoming an ever-widening circle changing colors.

Their plane scintillated in a variegated, hypnotic, stroboscopic display. Poly, Quad, and Trap were mesmerized.

Trap, however, having been exposed to spatial ambiance determined by three dimensions, recognized the truth. It was Romba! His love! How he had missed her.

But where Poly and Quad could only appreciate her surface features — a simple obscene circle--he saw the whole person.

For she was a sphere! A globe of multicolored enhancements of space, texture, and global existentialism. She was glorious.

He felt foolish. How could he continue living in only two-thirds of a world? He needed more dimension.

And so while he remained a simple trapezoid on Poly's and Quad's plain plane, he lived a secret, unseen life, in global ecstasy with his lover. They could look down on Poly and Quad, but Poly and Quad were unable to look up. Yet, they knew that their son was more than than just the 360º of his four angles; more than just four straight and narrow sides. More than just a simple quadrilateral. They suspected he was on an asymptote.

Poly lamented to Quad. "My tears need a minute to find the edges of my face. If you'll please excuse me." And with that, she was tempted to collapse into a line, albeit a straight and narrow one. But Quad had seen such collapse before and knew that there was a single endpoint that would surely follow.

Quad did not want singularity; he wanted dimensions to his love with Poly. And that's when he experienced a true epiphany:

Love is boundless. It really should be asymptotic. Multidimensional and growing. Cartesionally challenged, exponential, and unbound by geometry, planar or otherwise.

For Rhomba and Trap, they were now boundlessly in love, fractally recursive in their devotions to each other. But they still left--on that plane--a simple presence each, lined shadows that limited myopic, possessive beings could not fully appreciate, blind to the possibilities of space and time.

Ambulance sirens straight to you again. It’s not the sounds I craved for your young ears to hear so soon.

I had a yearning for you to hear the sounds of swings creaking, slides squealing, and the kids' laughter echoing from the monkey bars.

But Your hand barely bigger than my thumb warms mine on the hospital bed. I was about to let go. I had thought you'd been fast asleep (postictal seizure state) but your fighter's grip tightened around one of my fingers. Your eyes open slowly. I smile then you smile. The machines continue their relentless beeping. A rhythm both familiar and terrifying. These four white walls became like a box we haven't been able to escape from just yet.

I’m sorry my love the children's hospital isn't the second home I dreamt of for us.  But soon this box will leave.

I begin to say, “I'll buy us ice cream afterwards. I’ll take you to the playground down the street.” I lift my head off the bed to see your response but you went back to sleeping.

And I became lost in the hum of machines. The ambulance wail still echoing in my aching heart.

The past 30 years of my life I have been chasing the next best thing. The next goal, and on and on and on. Nothing I ever reached was enough. For myself, and maybe also for my parents. I was afraid I'd run out of time for all the things I want to try, know, learn, feel. But recently I stopped. It actually took a while; let's say the breaking distance felt 10km long. But now I am still. I notice, that I haven't been able to feel much of what I lived through, because I did it so fast. And always with the thought in my mind that I am not fast enough yet. I am missing out on my future, I am missing out on my presence, I want to live free right now and for 10 years to come - I want to have children of my own, preferably yesterday. I took FOMO and brought it to the next level. And even right now I think: "That is an achievement as well!". But, just like many on my Instagram feed, I don't want to achieve anymore. I want to enjoy. And apparently, those two are mutially exclusive, as long as my addiction stands. So, achievement detox it is.

And do you know what I noticed? It doesn't look like sunset just yet. I am standing in the yellow and orange of my dawn, cold and warm at the same time. I am not chasing the light, it's coming toward me, on its own. And it's silent. and it's glorious. all I need to do is stand there.

So today I made another dumb decision you only make when you think somehow the you that makes it will be different from the you that does it. As if your life is a part time job and you hope the next guy does it better, has more respect for the customers, more respect for the work itself. But i watched a video that spoke about the exact same thing I'm describing. A lack of consistency, or more accurately a lack of stewardship like my life is a public bathroom. The man on the screen said: "in order to be consistent, you have to realise that there is no consistency in you". And i just thought to myself well future me is a bigger loser than current me. I mean who even does stuff like that, if you find a public bathroom with stains and a cloth the previous guy used to clean it; you don't piss on the rag, right?

Anyway I thought i'd put a little more effort into my "write 40min a day" practice. Yesterday i did it while laying on my back whispering into the phone as google text-to-speech tried to write down my thoughts. Today I'm sitting by the computer typing on an old HP keyboard that makes noises that nerdy people pay decent money for these days. (don't know if it's the sound or the way it feels but these new keyboards are too mushy)

I thought I'd put more effort into it, more of myself into it even thought its not all of me, it's enough to one up whatever prick I wake up as tomorrow. As I battle with the thought that I have no idea what that guy is gonna do, I start to realise that by definition I get worse by the day. Meaning at some point it started going down hill. When did that happen, it's not that i can't imagine where i went wrong, I can't pinpoint a time when I didn't.

If there is one day I remember as the beginning of my descent, it's the day I got locked in a class as a punishment and I jumped out the window. Now that I think about it; its not that i got in serious trouble (that happened too often) it's the fact that i didn't understand what i did wrong. Till this day I don't regret it, but i remember the me who would've definitely hated doing that and felt horrible that he did it.

Whatever happened to that guy, the incident I speak of here happened when I was like 9 and every year since then I've similar events where I do something "bad" (or at least something that required a disciplinary hearing) up until my rampage of bad decisions started to leak outside school. Trouble with police, trouble with the community, excessive drinking, smoking, fighting at the time these felt like accomplishments.

Ask any of the degenerates i hung out with and they'd agree, my horrible habits were a badge of honour. I now realise I didn't start the timer or check the time.

But anyway whatever happened to that guy, the guy who wanted to impress his parents. The guy who likes Sci-Fi, nature and computers. I used to see him from time to time when i was sober he looked scared. One day I stopped seeing him, I thought he just became me, the new me. I now realise he's dead and the guy who replaced him doesn't care if he comes back but I kind of miss him.

Who am I? I should be the guy who's typing but it feels like i'm the guy who's watching. I feel like the part time job like the public bathroom thought I have alot of control of this guy today I have no idea what the guy after him is gonna be like. I just hope he comes back here so iatleast know what he's thinking.

Many people think humans adopt dragons

But they’re wrong.

There is something crazily, insanely, terrifyingly powerful about dragons.

And there is something hauntingly forbidding about the fact that they might almost, exist.

The one thing I know about dragons is that they are protective of what they call home.

In tales they burn down villages to take their sheep and break into castles for the treasures they seek.

In truth, we don’t know any of this. Maybe dragons are the little lizards we find on the ground and nothing more.

But I do know, that there is something hauntingly forbidding about the fact that might, almost exist.

I know that they might not guard treasures or slaves, but something tells me they never left their grave.

That they are soaring above the clouds. Just out of reach, amidst thunder showers.

There is something so hauntingly forbidding that’s it’s almost real, about the fact that dragons might be real.

There are some things that prove us wrong. Like that no bones or fossils are ever found.

But, there’s something else like an itch in my brain, that we might almost, one day, see them again.

“Where we going, Mama?” Little Mac asked as they drove out of town.

“We havin’ us an adventure, sugar.”

“An adventure? We going to a jungle or somethin’?”

“No, baby.”

After a long pause, Little Mac asked, “We runnin’ away ’cause Daddy done been sprung from jail?”

Annie Mae looked in the rearview, surprised. “What you say?”

Little Mac stared back with eyes just like his daddy's. “Gator come up to me at recess when I was playing with Red and Tommy. He asked was I sayin’ my prayers ‘cause sho’ ‘nuf I'd need'em since Big Mac had been sprung from prison and no doubt he was comin’ home to beat us some more or worse…”

“Baby, Gator don't know nothin’ ‘bout nothin’. We havin’ ourselves an adventure.”

“Where we goin’, Mama?”

“Well, I done filled the tank in this here car, and we gonna drive toward the settin’ sun till it's almost empty and if it's a nice looking town, well, I'll find me a job and we'll settle down, just you and me. Get us a nice little house…you'll see.”

“I ever gonna see Red and Tommy again? They's my best friends in the whole world.”

Annie Mae's eyes filled and she blinked hard at the road. “Maybe, sugar. Some day.”

The Sun is shining, and it’s a beautiful summer's day in a Trendy New York neighborhood. Rich kids are outside playing with friends. Little dogs are trying to keep up with their pint-size masters. While ever-watchful mothers are peeking out the windows from time to time, doing their best to keep an eye on their precocious offspring.

Suddenly a door opens and a neatly done-up woman steps outside to the front walkway and calls her children in for lunch. As she does, a slick-looking man walks up and stands off to the side, carrying a large, black suitcase.

The woman looks him up and down as he stands there smiling at her pleasantly. She ignores him for a couple of minutes as she gazes about calling her sons’ names, trying to determine where they have gotten to. Realizing he won’t go away, she grows annoyed with his presence and finally addresses him.

“Yes sir, is there something I can help you with?”

He steps forward and opens his suitcase. “Yes Ma’am, as a matter of fact, there is,” he answers. “Can I interest you in purchasing one of these books?”

She glances down briefly and sees that the books all have black shiny leather covers, and written on each of them in slim, gold, fanciful lettering are the words, “The Book of Self.”

The books are somewhat appealing to her in an odd sort of way and so she feels a little tempted to reach out, pick one up, and start reading. But in the end, she smiles at the salesman while shaking her head.

“I’m sorry sir, but between taking care of my business and trying to keep up with my rowdy kids, I simply don’t have the time for much reading. So I’m afraid I’ll have to say no. Besides, I have way too many other problems in my life right now to be bothered with such nonsense.”

The man smiles and nods his head sympathetically. “Miss, I understand what you're saying completely. But these books are far from being nonsense. And with your problems, that's all the more reason why you should give them a chance.”

The woman laughs a bit nervously, backs away then heads towards her home as the man follows her and pulls out a book. When she reaches her door, she turns towards him

again. “I’m sorry sir but in all honesty, I seriously doubt that any book has the ability to solve what I am going through."

“Well ma'am, quite frankly you will never know until you try. So will you at least take a look inside the book? Afterwards, if you still remain unmoved by what you find there I’ll gladly be on my way.”

The woman stands there for several seconds, debating what to do.

“Sure, if it will get you away from my doorstep and on to bother somebody else, I’ll take a minute or two and see what’s inside.”

“Thank you, miss, you won’t regret it…I promise.”

“I’ll decide that for myself if you don't mind” the woman answers as she reaches out and takes the book that the ever-persistent salesman offers her. She holds it in her hands and studies the front cover briefly. Finally, she opens the book and as she does her eyes fall upon the following words, “She opened the cover, began reading, and was amazed to find that the words were spontaneously writing themselves at that precise moment.” She quickly closes the book and hands it back to the man.

“I - I’m not sure I understand miss. So, you are not interested in buying a book now?” The man says, clearly confused by the woman’s reluctance to accept the evidence of her own eyes. Nevertheless, he takes the book back and prepares to place it in the suitcase.

“Wait!” She yells a second later as she reaches out and snatches the book back, opens it and starts reading again. The book continues with the words, “She changed her mind grabbed the book out of the salesman’s hands and continued reading what she found there. At that moment her sons came running up and stood off to the side as she followed the words which narrated the events that were taking place around her.” She suddenly closes the book and moves from in front of the doorway.

“Go inside, boys, lunch is on the table,” she tells them. The two of them step around their mother, but instead of going in the house normally, they both turn around and back up through the open doorway as they closely eye this strange man who now has their mother’s complete attention.

Once they’re inside, she reaches in and pulls the door shut after them. A second later she opens the book and reads,” She closed the door once they went in, then she opened the book and began reading again.” She only read for a few seconds then closed the book hard, so that the covers came together with a loud snap. Then, she thrust the book back at the man, as though she wanted nothing else to do with it.

“Look sir, I don’t know what kind of trick you’re trying to pull here, or what kind of scam

you’re running in order to make me buy these books from you, but it’s not going to work, GOT IT?”

“Look, Ma’am, I’m not sure what you mean, but I assure you that this is no sca-”

“I’ll tell you exactly what I mean mister. I am an honest, sensible, God-fearing woman and I will not allow some evil trash like that into this home. Now, you’d best be on your way sir, before my husband comes home for lunch and asks you to leave in a manner that is, how shall I put this? A lot less gentle than you’re probably used to.”

“Fine ma’am, I apologize for having wasted your time,” the man says as he takes the book back somewhat reluctantly, places it in the suitcase with the others and snaps the case shut. Then, right before he turns to leave he heaves a heavy sigh and smiles at the woman. “I just hope you don’t live to regret this decision. There have been others like yourself who have turned down this same opportunity and ended up deeply lamenting their choice later on.”

“I don’t see how,” the woman answered, as she stands at her door, preparing to go inside. “If all the book does is simply tell a person what’s taking place around them, then it really can’t be much of a help, can it?”

“Well, that really depends on the owner of the book.”

“I don’t understand what you mean. Please explain that statement,” the lady said as she closes the door, which she had partly opened. She now stands there with her arms folded in front of herself.

“Well, as odd as it sounds, these books actually have the ability to learn about their owners and in some cases, help them correct their actions, or keep them from making rash decisions. But the person must be willing to open up the book every day to see what is written there, and they must also be willing to open themselves up as well. It has to be a mutual give-and-take relationship. Then, when the book knows enough about a person it can start to anticipate their choices and help direct them to make wiser, more informed decisions.”

“I’m sorry sir, but I find that a little hard to believe. How can any book have such power? Even books like these that seem to almost have a mind and will of their own.”

“I do not know miss, it’s beyond my ability to figure out as well. All I know is that they’ve helped my wife and me a great deal.”

“Wait, you mean you own one of these books too?”

“Oh yes. I possess about a dozen of them, and most of my friends do as well.”

“How did they come into your possession? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Certainly not. Several years ago I visited an Indian mystic who lived high up in a monastery in the Himalayas. I had gone through quite an ordeal in my life before I arrived there. My first wife and our young son had been killed when a bandit had broken into our home and…and…” (Here he stops and begins swallowing hard as he tries to keep the memory of the tragedy from overwhelming him)

“I’m sorry sir, but I can see I’ve asked a question about things you may not be ready to–“

He holds his hand up as he tries to compose himself. “No, just give me a minute, please. I’ll be ok, honestly.” Afterwards, he takes a few deep breaths and manages to regain his composure.

“Look, if this is too hard for you, then why don’t we simply forget it. And I’ll buy a book just for having caused you to relive what must’ve been a very painful time in your life.”

“No...I’m fine now, thank you. Besides, it does me good to share my story from time to time. But, back to what I was saying, after their passing, I had a hard time coming to grips with what happened. I became a recluse for several months and had contemplated suicide before-“

“Oh my…how awful that must’ve been for you.”

“Yes, yes it was. But a long-time friend of mine eventually helped me to get through my dark night of the soul and actually informed me about the Indian mystic I mentioned. He had apparently met this ancient sage once before when he was a young boy.”

“How did they meet?” the woman inquired.

“His father needed both mental and physical healing after he had been grievously wounded in the war,” the salesman continued, “and so he was directed by some of the locals to this old healer who was very well-known among the people. Some of them agreed to take him there for a small fee. He paid the fee and brought his son along as well because he thought it would be a good learning experience for the boy, and so it was.”

“So, what happened when you finally encountered this ancient mystic?”

“When I arrived there, he informed me that he already knew I was coming, and he told

me many other things about my life as well. Afterwards, he invited me to sit down in front of his fire, I did so, then he asked me what I most desired in life. And so I told him that I wanted the ability to help myself.”

“That’s a good thing to ask for,” the woman noted.

“Yes, I thought so too, and apparently…he did as well.”

“What do you mean, did he tell you so?”

“No, but he sat there for quite a long time, grinning and nodding as he rocked himself back and forth with his eyes closed. I don’t know, but I kinda got the impression that he was pleased. Finally he told me that there were two things he could do for me.”

“What two things did he say he could do?”

“He said that he could give me the ability to help myself or to help others. He said that if I chose the first, I would travel far, learn many things and become a great man. But, he added, if I picked the second choice, then I would end up changing many lives, help others to do the same and perhaps bring peace to a small part of the world and leave a great legacy behind.”

“Obviously you chose the latter of the two,” the lady stated.

“I did, and I’ve not regretted it since.”

“But, you’ve still not explained to me how the book came into being.”

“I was just about to do that. After I made my choice, we went into a part of the monastery where there was a large collection of books, scrolls and such. He went over to one shelf in particular, pushed aside several dusty volumes of ancient lore, reached back, pulled out a large canvas bag and handed it to me.”

“And let me guess, the book he wanted you to have was in the canvas bag, right?” The woman said with a self-congratulatory grin, sure that she had guessed the answer.

“No, not quite. We went over to the fire, and he told me to open the bag and take out what was there, and so I did.”

“And what was it you took out?”

“A small scroll wrapped up in some type of animal skin. He then ordered me to toss it into the fire, and I did so. Afterwards, we sat back down and he began throwing some

herbs and incense into the flames, while muttering strange incantations. Afterwards, the flames began leaping up high. Then they began to crackle and as odd as it may sound, it almost seemed as if the fire was speaking back to him.”

“Oh my, that does sound odd, and kind of scary as well. What did he tell you to do next?”

“As the flames died down a little, but continued burning he gave me some herbs to eat, which I did. Then he told me that I must rest there for one day and one night.”

“Are you serious? He really told you that you had to sleep there in front of the fire for that long?”

“That’s correct.”

“I mean, weren’t you worried that he might…do something to you?”

“No, not at all. If you ever met the man you’d understand what I mean. He seemed completely harmless to me and in no way capable of hurting anyone, or anything for that matter. But, for the record, I did ask him why I had to sleep there.”

“And, what did he say?”

“He explained to me that I must sleep while the fire slept so that all my thoughts, words, memories, actions, emotions and knowledge could be gathered into the fire as well, in order for me to have the gift he offered.”

“And that’s when you fell asleep, right?”

“Yes, that is…I think so. Frankly, I don’t even remember falling asleep, I do recall waking up, however.”

“And how did you feel once you woke up?”

“Honestly, I felt different in a good sort of way, like there was an awareness deep inside of me that everything was going to be fine now. But, anyway, when I did finally awaken, I saw that the fire was out, but it was still smoldering a little. That’s when I saw the book lying right there in the middle of the ashes, but it had no title on it. The ancient one then bade me come to his side of the fire. Then, he told me to kneel, wet my finger, dip it into the ashes, and write on the front cover whatever title I thought suited the book best.”

“And, so you called it the Book of Self, right?”

“Well, not right away, I ran several names by the old one first, to see what he thought of

them.”

“What were the other names you came up with? I’m eager to hear them,” the lady inquired as she sat down on the front step. Afterwards, the salesman set his suitcase down and sat right next to her.

“The first title that I ran by him was, The Book of Self-Helping which I thought suited the book perfectly. However, he said if I gave it that title the book would simply write about itself and no one else. Essentially he said the book would just help itself.

“Oh, well…that’s not much good then, is it?” The woman observed.

“No, it’s not. But, I still had another idea for a title which I thought might work.”

“And what was that?”

“I suggested we call it, The Help Guide for Everyone. But that name also he said was equally bad. He told me that the book would then write endless little passages about every single person in my life. From my family and friends to the mailman, pizza delivery boy, grocery clerk down the street and our family dentist as well. In other words, the book would focus on everyone at the same time, and thus it would be unable to help anyone.”

“Oh my, all those people.”

“Yes, all those people is right. Then, I said perhaps I should just call it, The Book of Help but that too he said would accomplish nothing. So, as I was attempting to think of something else, I said simply, The Book of Self. And at that point, I was still trying to think of another word to add on when he stopped me and said that’s perfect!”

“What’s perfect?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I said…what’s perfect? And he answered, The Book of Self. That he said, was the best title I could give to it. I asked why, and he told me that it would then write only about the person who possessed it.”

“But, it wrote passages about my kids just now.”

“Well, it will of course include others in its pages, but only as how they relate to whoever owns the book.”

“Oh, I see.”

“And so, once he laid his hands on my shoulders, I wet my finger, dipped it into the ashes

and wrote on the cover the title it now bears, and just as he said, it fit perfectly.”

“My word, that is a fascinating story, I must admit. So what happens when you start to run out of books, do you go back to this Indian Sage and get more?”

“No. Actually when I do start to run low, the book just reproduces itself and when I open the suitcase again, it is filled once more.”

“That’s amazing!” The woman exclaimed. “But, why do you have a dozen of them yourself? Is your life so complicated that you fill-up the pages that fast?”

“No, the books never fill themselves up. Whenever I get close to the end of a book, it simply adds more pages on its own. I have a dozen of them so that I can give away some to family, friends and whoever else I encounter that may be in need of one.”

“Well, if you don’t mind telling me, what exactly do you do with all the money you make from your sales?”

“Well naturally, some of it helps towards paying my bills and such. If I have enough left over, I may donate a little to my favorite charity. And the rest I send to the old man who then uses it to purchase things he needs to continue helping others just as he helped me. Also, I should mention that I do have a full-time job. This is something I only do on the side.”

“Yes. Well, that is one unbelievable story regardless, and I can see now why you try so hard to sell them. So, I guess there really is something special to these books after all.”

“Yep, there really is,” the salesman stated, “I’m living proof of that.”

“I agree, you certainly are. But there was one other thing I've been wondering about. If I do buy one, will the book continue to write about me even when it's closed, or only when I open it?"

"Oh both, to be sure. As a matter of fact, once you've had it in your possession for a while, you can randomly open it, and find any number of chapters written about your life. Including your family and friends, your job, your hobbies, the choices you make about certain things, and all else besides. At that point, once the book becomes familiar enough with your life, dreams, goals, wishes, and plans then it will also come to form certain opinions about you, which it will also share as well."

"Oh my!" The woman exclaimed. "That is truly amazing. Well, you've definitely sold me on them. I'll take one...no two!" The woman said, suddenly realizing that an extra book may just come in handy.

“Fine, here you are,” the salesman said, handing her the first book she’d been looking at and another one as well. “That’ll be forty dollars even,” he stated.

“Okay. Just one second while I go in and retrieve the money from my purse. I hope you don’t mind waiting, um……I’m sorry sir, but I never did catch your name.”

“The name is Gregory…Gregory Von Hildebrand. And what might your name be, ma’am?”

“My name is Eleanor. And I am both very pleased and very fortunate to have met you, Gregory,” the lady said as she extended her hand towards him.

“I feel the same way, Eleanor,” he answered as he smiled, took her hand in his, then shook it briefly and held it awhile before finally releasing it.

“Well if you’ll excuse me please, I promise, I shan’t be long,” Eleanor said giddily as she turns and goes bouncing lightly up the steps. Once inside she sets the books down, reaches into her pocketbook, opens her purse and takes out the money. She then turns and quickly walks back through the open door.

Once outside though, she sees that the salesman has disappeared and left a receipt taped to the metal railing.

She pulls the receipt off, looks at it, and reads, “Two books/Total Price/$40/Paid in full.”

“I don’t get it,” she says to herself. “Why would he not want to collect his fee?” She then turns it over and on the back is written a little note.

“It’s enough that you were willing to pay, but you’ll find that the best things in life sometimes cost you nothing – Gregory”

She walks into her home, a little disappointed that she had not been able to thank the man properly. Then, after she places the money back into her purse, she opens one of the books and her eyes fall upon the latest entry.

“And so her hope was turned to both disappointment and then joy. As she lost her chance to thank the kind salesman, but was rewarded with a new best friend who would come to know her entire life story from cover to cover.”

The End?

I am a great man. The greatest who ever lived.

For every 10 people, there are 11 opinions. Protestants disagree with Catholics; Muslims and Jews choose existential exclusivity; communists condemn capitalists; Hatfields and McCoys feud to the death.

But everything has changed with me. I'm the galvanizing spark smelting them all together, purifying a unified destiny, extracting a truth they could all embrace--and with a smile.

It wasn't easy. It takes a powerful epiphany to sidestep so many irreconcilable philosophies, so many generations of intuitive cross-hatred, and so many divisions of faith, ethos, and socioeconomic strata.

I provided just that.

Just imagine, infidels dancing check-to-cheek with accusers; sinners' refusal to sin again; apostates evangelizing with apologists; the righteous obsequious to and fawning over the forgiven. If that doesn't stake my claim to greatness, convince me otherwise! Please!

To unify the immiscible, you must instill in them a mandate that supersedes all differences. I led by example--not by all the words that have been written, to no avail. My actions spoke volumes--heard, read, and understood in a thousand languages, a hundred religions, and by billions of independent thinkers who turned their attentions to me and away from their own self-serving aspirations and devotions.

I am great because I made all that happen. How, you might ask?

I committed a crime so heinous, ungodly, revolting, disturbing, shocking, and ugly, that it not only got the attention of everyone, everywhere, all at once, but commandered it. Human instinct distanced everyone from what I did--and from the type of person who could do it. What they arrived at, separating themselves from me--what they encountered--was a spirituality so far from where they thought they were that they all arrived at the same place.

A place without me.

My crime was so instinctively heretical to everyone, everywhere, that I provided, finally, common ground. As horrible as it was unprecedented, no human on Earth had even considered such a crime. But I did.

And did it. Everyone's getting along, but not with me. Thank me: the world's a beautiful place now.

Now I'm in the Cruel-and-Unusual Punishment wing of Death Row, the first to make legislating such a thing, Constitutionally, necessary. They're not only going to kill me, but they're going to make me suffer, too. To set an example. So it never happens again.

Oh, but trust me, it will.

For I didn't finalize the horrible and heinous. Not at all. Mine isn't the last word. I just raised and lowered the bar at the same time--for the others who will follow. That's just beautiful! You're welcome.