I am the Custodian of this story, she thought, and for the first time in weeks, she felt that some small part of this—minuscule in the grand scheme of things, but still salient to her harried mind—was starting to make sense.
I am the Custodian of this story; I am not writing it; it is writing me. I am its house---its shepherd---as it unfolds.
When there is a phasic shift, the entire probabilistic span of the field updates like a split-flap display. The tickering begins. The future shapeshifts as it reveals what was. The web we weave is a story that keeps rewriting itself.
The weaver unlocks herself from her trance as her silk spins and she drops in; suspended in space, she is. We are all suspended in space; we are.
It’s writing itself now.
