Parability, yes – he sits there and he talks the room around his finger; his spine a handle and his head the head of a spoon; he is stirring the world. Steward, Stewart; a stewpot. What kind of meat is that? What kind of meet?
Some places you go and they ask you for a single name, because that is all they believe you are badged with. But some places you go and they blow smoke in your face to unwrap the ribboning snakes of your temporal DNA. Your identity unravels through pulled apart ANDS.
Walking down streets, strands, a double helix, a conch, a spiral, a twist tag binding universes together – spiral arms to embrace all.
Anders sits there and he says what you think I am doing is smoking weed, and that this is helping me to escape a maze I have built of smoke, but it is really a series of levels within the heart of a pyramid; a pyramid that unfolds to a box, a box that fold to make a cross, and a holographic fish nailed to it.
There is a hinge. A Stone Henge – where the seam of sunset and the seam of sunrise, we see an escape – a place through which we might exit The Knotlands, and enter the Overwrite … discover that everything is up to par if you’re able. You learn that a trapdoor is a trapped whore, is a trapped door, is a rapped door, is a wrapped door – that nothing is as it seemed. As it seamed.
In one place Anders is a shadow, and in another the shadow is Stewart, and in another place they are friends. All these things are true – stories telling each other that build levels upon levels of fingerprints until depth is added to the picture. Sat there in the room he had been talking to Stewart reaches out and shakes Anders hand, and they fold through smile to become a poem, one that Coran Andress first read when he was a child, all those years before he forgot where he was and what he was, and who he was. And the poem reached in and started his heart beating again.