In the space with myriad times, all is frozen in dread. A shriek erupts from a cave of gods long dead. All shiver, absolutely still, in the cold, colder than cold. Eternal paralysis is brought down on that which might have been and now will never be.

In the time with myriad spaces, all is held fast in terror. Some whimper, others moan, aghast at the infinite silence of a plane devoid of will, of want, of common worries, and suffused with the prurient stink of forbidden sacrifices.

And in the furthest elsewhere of myriad times and myriad spaces, where there is no time and no space: A highway, somewhere in the west: clear sunlight, all is both crisp and indistinct, the cracked, white center line of the road passing quickly, cool wind, flat land, desert—high desert, buttes and cliffs and red rock faces both near and far—the view stretches forward, the periphery slightly blurred, blue sky and a few very white clouds, all is blue sky, gray asphalt, fading white lines, orange-red cliffs, orange-yellow sand, brown-beige shrubs, driving onward into the west, in the going-under and manic calm of wind and quiet and cool air and endless twilight: a never-setting sun, an ever-setting sun, no sun and an ashen sun—ashen, but with a pure light, stolen and returned, illuminating all that ever was dark.

No thought. No pain. No thought. The negation of negation itself, of cares and hopes and embarrassments. The end of ending, when eternal sleepers wake: all love is drained; hate is extinguished Fear and awe are made one. The candle is lit. The great work is finished.

The great work begins.