There is nothing. Actually, there isn't a way to be nothing. Churning across the tall grass, I pay tribute to the cement factory (is it a factory? Is that what you'd call it?) on McKibbin, near where I, for some reason, live. I gave up on prophecy - too bad. I gave up on winning, power, trying - too bad. The whales of my ambition sing to one another in the thick, old water. Five minutes later I discover that beauty doesn't have to have any surplus meaning. But I discover it too late! Because things are no longer beautiful. Hips no longer curve around the road. Porphyry no longer drips with value. Myrrh no longer trades places with quintessence. There are only age and death, which are beautiful. There is only remorse, which shreds the wi-fi in Sierra Leone to pieces with its fast-Fourier transforming boardwalk, sacrificed to the cult of Gyges so that Christ would finally die off. I payed my way to get this far, so I may as well bow down to the dimension of the Other, shake hands and kiss babies. There was never a trace of diamond encrusted flesh hidden underneath your Turing-equivalent.