What good could come about in Creation, were there no audience?

“Know thyself,” if thou hast the luxury. Better to know before Whom you stand when pressed for time.

The blurring of the subject-object, the viewer-viewed, experiment-Experimenter—how utterly uncanny is this state of affairs, for what sort of Zookeeper allows the lions of His zoo to eat the patrons? What kind of Shaper allows for allowing and shapes shapers?

A queer concoction, this homely orb and its various chariots—but what Former would imbue it with thoughts which think themselves? Dreamforms amid dreamscapes?

The image of the ouroboros is crisp and immediate, but neither the snake nor its image are anywhere to be found. The finding itself is not to be found. All, indeed, is unfounded and dumbfounded in the glowering of the Most High.

The annulling of nullity or the negation of negation itself—to never have existed—this is that after which all seekers seek: obliteration in the Endless Light, perhaps. Perhaps.

But in the end of ending and End, what does any of this matter if one cannot touch the face of the primordial man? The silver, inner mirror, displaying the image of the uncreated countenance?

What, oh what, did your face look like before your father was born? And his father? And The Father, unborn and unbegotten?

Not what was expected. Not what was intended. Not what was desired. It was dreaded.

I looked into your soul,

And I did not like what I saw.