HE BEING DEAD, one can go into oneself indefinitely now. It is possible to enter that huge tomb without danger of superstition. And pray for miles. He had begun finding himself by the theft of a fountain pen. Which had been his by right - yet denied him for years. A calligrapher? Never! He was now way beyond all possible writing. The small, four-footed scribblers who dealt with holy scribing in normal times were exhausted at their own invisibility. Animal gods. However hard they came down, with four feet to the ground, their paws left no trace whatsoever. In fact, they were hardly calligraphers at all - left a long way behind the capital in a sort of small mist, extending hardly a city block in acreage. Though they thought of it as the flower of human empires, of course it lost its currency the very next day.
No - stolen pens had quite another purpose. They became . . . ritual instruments: adamantine symbols of a cast-off power that lay in wait now, behind bush or tree, for the birds of ill-omen to pass. All governmental figures were in at last: scribal personae were up over 80% in about one thousandth thousandth of the era's duration. Available commissions were few as blades of grass in the forever now decrepit fields. It would come to be a race in future between the scripture folk and other quadruped endangered species as to which might outstay which in unforgiving radiance. Note that for the bipeds - all had been given up for aeons already. As to the birds and such: one mantis alone held up the fields to heaven.
And she as the retaining matter, womb of reality we are dead bound to, world of reality-concerns which never let one free for a single moment? What is there yet to do? Ha! if there were things to do, the world would never be stopped! Seed by itself, set free out of the womb of concept: before concept is no is-ness. Absence of name - void as the fields between star families inside our sight - perceivable after long intervals in the heart of the unnamed. We are dead gone now, be sure of it.