And when one thought has flickered through the mind,
More brain-realms answer, leaving none behind;
Thus contemplation’s thread unwinds its spool,
Each moment to the next forever twined.

(The Greatest Stitcher; no seams)

Behold its nature’s aspects five unfold:
Compositional structures manifold,
Intrinsic as our own, Informing clear,
Integrated, Exclusive in its hold.

(The whole darn operation)

United feels this field of conscious thought,
Though scattered be the brain-realms where it’s wrought;
The qualia of sense-experience shine,
While seamless flows the change that time has brought.

(Perfect Unity!)

How can this ghost of thought move flesh and bone,
When neural deed is done and verdict known
Before awareness breaks upon our shore?
The answer in time’s sequence lies alone.

(Nah, it doesn’t; the brain does it)

Yet Consciousness brings gifts beyond mere scheme
Of reflex-action’s automatic stream:
Flexibility to shape reaction’s course,
And Focus sharp on what we vital deem.

(Exclusion)

It grants Evaluation’s weighted scale,
Where logic, feeling, neither can quite fail;
For Survival it opens pathways new,
Where Complex choices might yet prevail.

(Evaluation)

Through Learning’s endless combinations bright,
We weave perception’s threads in fresh delight;
Discrimination’s finest differences show
Which fruits bring health, which hold destruction’s bite.

(The will is dynamic)

In Evolution’s grand unfolding play,
It spurred the Cambrian dawn of nature’s way;
Made predators grow keen in cunning’s art,
While prey found newer paths from day to day.

(The explosion)

See Beauty bloom in flower’s painted face,
As plants evolved their pollinator’s grace;
While minds could ponder action’s consequence
Before commitment to time’s embrace.

(Actionizing)

Reality stands firm beyond our sight,
Our senses taking in its waves of light;
The Brain paints useful faces on these waves—
Makes color from mere frequency’s delight.

(Just three proteins in the eye rotate according to
the amount of the three primary colors)

When drugs or sleep or trauma’s sudden blow
Disturb the brain, consciousness sinks below;
Change neural paths, and mind must follow suit—
For only from the brain can awareness flow.

(Consciousness is a brain process reflected)

We often miss the sea in which we swim,
Mistaking thought-stream’s contents, fleeting-dim,
For consciousness itself that bears them all,
Like water bearing leaves on ocean’s rim.

(The Sea in which we See)

Behold Consciousness in all its parts,
How structured layers form from scattered starts;
Each distinction clear as mountain streams,
Yet flowing to one sea of human arts.

(Distinction par excellance!)

First mark how Composition builds its throne
From many elements, not one alone;
Like letters forming words, then sentences,
Till meaning rises from the parts well-shown.

(A kind of consciousness’ alphabet unto literature)

As bricks and mortar rise to mansion fair,
So consciousness builds castles in the air;
Each phenomenal distinction placed
With architect’s precision, layer by layer.

(What a filmmaker!)

Intrinsic next, as personal as breath,
As intimate as life, as close as death;
No borrowing this sense of ‘only mine’,
This ownership no other self can theft.

(Yours alone)

Independent it stands, yet bound within,
Like sovereignty that needs no foreign kin;
A kingdom of the self, complete and whole,
Where every thought knows where it should begin.

(King of the World)

Then Information flows, precise and clear,
Each detail rendered faithfully sincere;
No vague approximations cloud this lens,
Each particle of thought crystal-clear.

(Extreme clarity)

Particular and specific it stays,
No general musings cloud its focused gaze;
Like archer’s arrow seeking only one
Sweet target through perception’s misty haze.

(Focused)

Integration weaves its seamless whole
From scattered threads of being’s varied scroll;
Though brain-regions far and wide contribute,
One unified experience is their goal.

(All for one)

No longer can this wholeness be reduced
To simpler parts, once unity’s produced;
Like water from its elements combined,
A new thing altogether is induced.

(True emergence? Or Fundamental?)

Exclusivity sets boundaries clean:
No more, no less than what is truly seen;
Each conscious moment perfectly defined,
No fuzzy edges blur what contents mean.

(Nothing extra)

See how Mental Unity holds its ground,
Though neural sources scatter all around;
Like many instruments in symphony,
Creating one magnificent sound.

(The Magnificat!)

The brain’s divided regions all conspire
To forge one field of consciousness entire;
Though specialists in different corners toil,
One unified experience they inspire.

(What a symphony!)

Then Qualia paint their colors rich and strange,
The felt-sense qualities that ever range
From red of rose to taste of morning dew,
As consciousness gives meaning to each change.

(Physical neurological to experiential qualia)

These qualities that only minds can know—
The sunset’s beauty, coffee’s warming glow—
Are consciousness’s artist’s palette pure,
From which all lived experience must flow.

(All one ever encounters is the inside of the head)

Continuity then stitches time’s swift stream
Into one flowing, ever-changing dream;
Though moments pass like birds across the sky,
Their passage forms one motion, or would seem.

(A great video editor)

No gaps appear within this seamless flow,
Though consciousness must come and sometimes go;
Like movie frames run swift before our eyes,
Create illusion of continuous show.

(Very high sight resolution, at least in the center)

Each aspect thus contributes to the whole
Of consciousness’s grand, mysterious role:
Compositional, Intrinsic, Informed,
Integrated, Exclusive in its soul.

(Therein lies it nature)

Together these create the mirror bright
In which the world reveals itself to sight;
Though physics charts the cosmos vast and deep,
Consciousness alone can hold its light.

(Ah, light within a dark head)

The brain translates raw reality’s face
To sound and color, taste, and touch’s grace;
Consciousness mirrors brain-activity,
As neural patterns weave through time and space.

(It paints a better more useful face)

From nerve to spine to brain’s encrypted code,
Consciousness threads throughout its whole abode;
A way to act within imagination,
Before committing to action’s road.

(From the nerve spindles everywhere…)

While Physics charts external cause and rule,
Consciousness exists as nature’s jewel:
Intrinsic, whole, composed of many parts,
Yet unified beyond reduction’s tool.

(Seems irreducible, perhaps fundamental)

It serves distinction’s evolutionary need,
Though causing naught save in its own thought-deed,
For being, not for doing, is its realm,
While intelligence guides action’s seed.

(It appears to exist only for itself)

The posterior cortex holds the key,
For only here must consciousness still be;
With feedback loops that bind the fragments whole,
Creating unity that lets us see.

(Feedback ‘magic’)

This wholeness forms consciousness direct and clear,
A process fundamental, nature’s peer;
Or else it speaks the brain’s symbolic tongue,
Translating neural code to meaning near.

(Are qualia the language of the mind?)

This Whole speaks outward, sharing mind with mind,
While brain-states learn what consciousness designed;
So subconscious regions can then know
The unified awareness thus defined.

(A global broadcast?)

The brain’s grand theatre stages its display,
While consciousness arrives too late to sway
The plot already written, yet feels real—
Director of a film from yesterday.

(Seems to be happening live)

And thus we end where first our tale began:
In brain’s deep halls where consciousness first ran,
A process bound in flesh, yet seeming free,
Reflecting on itself since we began.

(Consciousness evolved)

Consider now Time’s arrow and its flight:
How consciousness lags reality’s height;
While neural networks race beneath our view,
We float upon their wake in conscious light.

(Skiing like)

Each moment that we think we’re choosing new
Has already been settled through and through;
The brain decided ere we knew to choose,
Our feeling of free will a time-skewed clue.

(The fixed will of the instant)

Like ripples spreading on a neural pond,
Each thought-wave touches shores that lie beyond;
The conscious mind may claim to rule alone,
Yet unconscious depths hold wisdom’s bond.

(In the repertoire)

In dreams we glimpse this truth most clear of all,
When consciousness lets its firm barriers fall;
The hidden brain spins tales we think we guide,
While neural pattern-makers weave our thrall.

(As well was from brain ‘noise’)

Mark how the senses each their tale relate:
Sight, sound, and touch combine to integrate;
Yet consciousness binds all to unity,
Though scattered brain-realms must collaborate.

(The orchestra plays as one)

What seems a single stream of thought sublime
Is orchestra of brain-realms keeping time;
Each player adds its note to consciousness,
Till harmony emerges from their chime.

(Conducting itself like a band)

When damage strikes some portion of the brain,
See how consciousness shifts its domain;
Like water finding new paths to the sea,
Neural plasticity rebuilds again.

(Consciousness directly reflects the brain)

In meditation’s deep and centered space,
We sometimes catch consciousness face-to-face;
The watcher and the watched at last revealed
As brain-processes moving through their grace.

(Remove thoughts; meditation is not what you think!)

Each qualia—each taste of wine or tea,
Each sunset’s glow, each song’s sweet melody—
Emerges from the brain’s translation true
Of raw reality we cannot see.

(Phenomena from Noumena)

The hardest problem still remains unsolved:
How neural fire to conscious thought evolved;
What bridge connects the objective brain
With subjective experience resolved?

(The Hard Problem)

Perhaps we seek a ghost that never was,
Questioning consciousness and all its laws;
When brain-process and awareness merge as one,
The mystery dissolves without a cause.

(Basic property?)

Yet still we feel the weight of being here,
Of knowing that we know, of thinking clear;
Though consciousness arrives a moment late,
Its presence makes our human nature dear.

(Second level view of first level thought)

When Memory opens up its golden door,
Consciousness weaves past moments as before;
Yet what we think we purely recollect
Is reconstruction from the neural store.

(Prions hold memory stable, yet it can fade/change)

Each reminiscence that we hold so true
Is fabricated, mixed, and born anew;
The brain invents to fill each memory’s gaps,
While consciousness presents the seamless view.

(Can change from being accessed)

In Sleep’s dark realm, see consciousness transform,
As neural patterns shift from waking norm;
Dreams rise like bubbles from the depths below,
While reason’s captain sleeps amid the storm.

(The brain is not fully functioning)

The Child’s mind shows consciousness unfold,
As neural networks worth their weight in gold
Build representations ever more complex,
Till self-awareness blooms from patterns old.

(Linear details scanned; overall view done in parallel)

Mark how Attention’s spotlight roams the stage,
Selecting what consciousness will engage;
While countless neural processes compete,
One winner claims the mind’s illumined page.

(Many simpleton ‘minds’ competing for attention)

The Social Brain evolved this conscious art
To model others’ minds and take their part;
Through consciousness we simulate their thoughts,
And navigate the human heart.

(Empathy)

Some say the Self is but a useful tale
That consciousness spins like a ship’s bright sail;
A story that the brain tells to itself,
To chart a course through life’s tempestuous gale.

(Having future is foremost: as survival)

When altered states through drug or trance descend,
See how reality and dreamtime blend;
As neural patterns shift their normal course,
Consciousness follows where these changes tend.

(Faithful mirror of the brain)

The Language centers weave their grammar’s spell,
Creating inner voices that can tell
The stories of our consciousness stream,
Though deeper currents run beneath the well.

(The currents’ result appears as being current)

Consider how Decision’s moment flows:
The brain computes before awareness knows;
Yet consciousness can help set parameters
By which subconscious wisdom makes its shows.

(More, as meaning rumination)

Like fractals building patterns ever new,
Each conscious moment holds a nested view;
The brain creates complexity from simple rules,
As awareness emerges from the crew.

(But a very complex process)

In Evolution’s laboratory vast,
Consciousness proved its worth in ages past;
For those who could model future scenes
Found better paths than those who moved too fast.

(Good, but reactive people may need to slow down)

The Mirror test reveals the self-aware,
As consciousness learns itself to declare;
Yet even this awareness comes too late,
The brain already knowing who is there.

(Only ever the just past is shown; no present)

Some philosophers would consciousness deny,
Call it illusion, or a useful lie;
But process needs no substance to be real—
Ask any wave that moves beneath the sky.

(Daniel Dennett)

The Mystery remains, yet science shows
How brain-process to conscious knowing flows;
Each year we map more territories true
Of how awareness comes and goes.

(Soon, others can read your mind)

Perhaps no final answer we shall find
To bridge the gap ‘tween matter and the mind;
Yet in the seeking lies our nature’s crown:
Consciousness studying its own kind.

(Information is dual as both matter and mind?)

When Artificial Minds begin to rise,
Will consciousness emerge before our eyes?
Or will there only be a zombie’s dance,
Raw computation wearing thought’s disguise?

(Artificial Inteligence)

For how can we be certain what is felt
By other minds where consciousness has dwelt?
The hard problem doubles when we seek
To know if silicon can awareness melt.

(Functionalism)

In Meditation’s depths some masters claim
That consciousness transcends the mortal frame;
Yet every altered state that they describe
Still needs a brain to light awareness’ flame.

(Actually, quietude in ID center and body boundary)

The Quantum theorists would consciousness bind
To wave collapse and measurement combined;
Yet macro-scale coherence can’t survive
In neural warmth of any human mind.

(Need a brain freeze from eating ice cream)

Some see consciousness spread through all that is,
Pan-psychic dreams of universal bliss;
But process needs complexity to rise,
And rocks hold not the patterns consciousness miss.

(Electron thinks: which way should I go?)

When Artists shape new visions from the void,
Is consciousness the master they employed?
Or does it merely watch the neural dance
Of creativity otherwise deployed?

(Are we the dancer or the danced upon?)
(What should I do? The universe does you!)

The Moral sense that guides us right from wrong,
Does consciousness conduct that ancient song?
Or does it only witness what arose
From neural circuits judging all along?

(Nature and nurture)

Consider too how consciousness must grow
Through childhood’s dawn, as neural patterns flow;
Each year brings richer awareness to the mind,
As brain-complexity continues to show.

(Teen-age brains may show some temporary ‘insanity’)

Some species share consciousness with our kind,
While others leave awareness far behind;
The octopus thinks thoughts we cannot know,
While beetles march with simpler states assigned.

(Got to roll that dung!)

In Cultures spread across Earth’s fertile face,
Each finds in consciousness a different grace;
Some see it as the cosmic force divine,
While others mark its neural time and place.

(A soul?)

When Lovers meet and consciousness combines,
Do qualia cross over normal lines?
Or does each brain remain forever sealed,
While empathy suggests deeper designs?

(Yes)

The Future holds more mysteries in store,
As neuroscience opens door by door;
Will consciousness reveal its secrets all,
Or keep some riddles hidden evermore?

(All will be revealed in time)

When Brain-Computer Interfaces bloom,
Will consciousness expand beyond its room?
Or will it stay confined to brain-process,
While external aids play progress’s tune?

(We will become as Large Language models)

In Aging’s slow descent we sometimes find
That consciousness grows dim as neurons bind;
Yet wisdom often deepens with the years,
As if awareness grows more refined.

(The wise old man or woman)

The Social Web that links all human minds
Creates a meta-consciousness that binds;
Yet each brain holds its private theater still,
While sharing what the conscious mind assigns.

(Memes)

Perhaps in Time we’ll map the neural code
That gives rise to consciousness’ episode;
Yet knowing how may never tell us why
Awareness lights the brain’s abode.

(Quantum mental fields?)

Her craft now sank from heaven’s azure height,
While Michael raced through groves that dimmed his sight,
Till round a bend, the scene before him spread:
A mansion grand, in marble pure and bright.

Trish was dropping altitude now, and descending rapidly. He lost her for awhile, having had to race through a dense grove of trees that bordered close to the road. But when he came around a curve with a brief open view, there she was, softly landing in the center of a large estate, where there was a sizable stone mansion built in the European tradition.

Through garden paths his love did swiftly flee,
While sinking silk, like waves upon the sea,
Draped gently o’er the landing’s chosen ground,
And thoughts of Theory struggled to break free.

She leaped out of the balloon and ran for the garden.
Michael watched as Trish disappeared into the ornamental grounds that surrounded the mansion. Her hot-air balloon was gently and gracefully collapsing, slowly covering the ground around him.

Forget All Things, his heart sang wild and clear,
As balloon’s folds awoke him from his peer
At wealth’s domain that spread in splendor vast,
Where noble dreams seemed suddenly so near.

For some reason, he thought of ToeQuest and he had to fight hard to get it out of his mind. This is going to be a good weekend of forgetting Everything, he thought, as the balloon’s fabric fell onto him, waking him from his reverie of dilemma.
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The terraced grounds in perfect order lay,
Where marble walls rose proud in grand display,
And Michael stood between two worlds at last:
The quest for Truth, and Love’s more earthly way.

Looking around, he took in the richness of the estate and couldn’t help but translate it in his mind to a dollar figure. The grounds were perfectly terraced and landscaped. The mansion itself was made of pure marble, with stone and slate at the base. The world of nobility was just sitting there waiting for him to become a part of it.

Yet something strange hung in the silent air:
No guards, no souls to tend this mansion fair,
Till zap and buzz made Michael turn to see
Electric fence spring up without a care!

The whole place was more than magnificent! But something was not quite right. The grounds were empty; there were no security guards, no groundskeepers, and no servants; in fact, there were no signs of any life whatsoever. It seemed to be some sort of fortress of solitude, and this theory was confirmed when Michael heard a zap and a buzz. He quickly turned to see the heat shimmering near an electric security fence that had just snapped on behind him.

Saved or ensnared? His mind did briefly race,
Was Trish some madness in this lonely place?
But peace soon flowed like water through his veins:
Alone together in this fortress’ grace!

Briefly alarmed, he wondered whether he felt saved or trapped! Just what side of the fence was the enemy on? Could it be that Trish was some sort of emotional nut case? He soon relaxed, though, as he felt a wave of reassurance coming over him, for the force field could only mean that they were meant to be romantically alone and safe from intrusion!

The groundless grounds held secrets of their own,
Where modern botany had wisely grown
A maintenance-free carpet, emerald-deep,
And Michael saw how Trish could live alone.

It also neatly explained the absence of the security guards, for none were needed! Michael swung into action, for this was his middle name, a secret that even MI8 didn’t know.
As he ran toward the garden he noted that what he thought to be grass had actually turned out to be a ground cover that he knew to be self spreading, maintenance free, and dense enough to keep out the weeds, thus explaining the absence of any groundskeepers. This was indeed a very modern estate. Things were becoming clear to Michael’s finely tuned mind: Trish was some sort of a rich hermit, or something.

But lo! The garden held one challenge more:
A hedge maze spread its puzzle-walls before
Our hero’s path, a European jest
That trapped him in its green-leafed corridor.

The garden turned out to be a maze of high hedges, a popular European diversion. Michael was not very happy to see it, even though it was a work of art, because he had thought to have an easy conclusion to the day’s quest.

Like beast ensnared he paced the verdant walls,
While disorientation’s shadow falls,
His reckless charge through branching paths proclaimed
How love’s swift chase oft to confusion calls.

He attacked the maze rather recklessly, and just as quickly lost his way. He was soon totally disoriented and began to feel more and more like a trapped animal.

Through leafy gaps he spied his racing queen
By lakeside pier, in waiting pose serene,
While thoughts of steadier loves crossed his mind,
Yet speed’s wild charm held power still unseen.

Michael peered through a small opening between the bushes and was just able to catch a glimpse of Trish heading down to a large lake behind the mansion. She walked out on a pier towards a powerboat, then looked back and saw that he was nowhere in sight; so she, apparently, sat down near the boat to wait for him.
Michael remembered his analogy of women to cars; Trish was even faster than a sports car! She was an Indianapolis speed racer who was going to burn out her engine and probably not even finish the event! For a brief moment he wished for some station-wagon-like stability. But, boy, he thought, what an AUTO-biography he could write!

Through hedge-gap tight he boldly forced his way,
His flesh by thorns marked for love’s display,
When she, espying him, leapt quick to boat,
And called him to yet one more chase that day.

Michael could sense that Trish had even more adventures in mind, and this weighed on him slightly, making him bold enough to throw himself through the small gap in the hedges to surprise her, getting a number of minor scratches and scrapes in the process. Cool it, you’re losing it! Let her have her fun, for now.
Sure enough, as soon as she saw him coming she jumped straight into the motorboat and started the engine, all the time urging him on with the chase: “Hurry up, Michael! Come quick. Run Michael! Run! See Michael run.” She yelled to him as she drove the boat around in circles, waving a ski rope in her hands, saying “Come to me, Michael! Take the rope.”

“Run, Michael, run!” her taunting voice rang clear,
As boat’s wake churned the waters of the mere,
With ski-rope stretched like fate’s enticing thread,
She beckoned him to conquer doubt and fear.

For a split second Michael began to wonder why he was always chasing after ropes, and why he should jump into a lake just because she’d told him to do so; nevertheless, he hurriedly removed his socks and shoes, and quickly jumped into the lake. She slowed the boat, coming almost near him, and smiled for a moment at his spirited self, encouraging him.

His shoes cast off, he plunged in water’s grip,
While questions of his sanity did slip
Through mind that wondered at this mad pursuit,
Till rope-hold yanked him on his wild trip.

She threw him the ski rope. He grabbed for it, just managing to get the rope handle as she threw the throttle forward to full power. He plowed through the lake like an anchor.

Half-drowned, half-skiing on his naked feet,
He marveled at this impossible feat,
Till wonder broke his balance, sent him down
To skip like stone where lake and sky did meet.

She dragged him along, half in and half out of the water. Somehow he got onto his feet and found himself water-skiing barefoot. He was so amazed at the impossibility of this feat that he just as quickly collapsed into the water, rolling and tumbling forward, sort of like a stone that had been thrown, skipping and skimming.

She left him there with life-ring’s mercy small,
While love and doubt fought o’er his watery fall,
Till challenge remembered lent him might,
And shore he gained, to sink in exhaustion’s thrall.

Leaving him there floundering, flailing, and drowning, Trish headed straight back towards the shore, but at least she had the decency to throw him a life preserver. Michael began to wonder if Trish was worth it, but he soon painfully remembered that he thrived on LIFE and LOVE’s ADVENTURE, although he wasn’t so sure anymore. He remembered her challenge: If you can keep up with me today, then you can have me tonight. This seemed to give him some extra energy that soon built into the super strength that allowed him to swim to shore, whereupon he promptly fell down, exhausted, and passed out.

From dreams he woke to find her standing near
The flower beds, his vengeance moment clear;
He feigned his sleep till chance for chase arose,
Then sprang with cry of “DOOM!” in her ear.

He awoke later, at first believing that he’d dreamt a nightmare, but harsh reality smacked him in the face when he saw Trish waiting for him in front of the flower garden. He pretended to be still asleep and so when she looked away for a second he leapt up and ran, getting to within ten feet of her before she spotted him and bolted towards the garden. “Wait till I get my hands on you, Trish!” he called after her. “YOU’RE DOOMED!”

Through gardens strange where roses blue did bloom,
Past doors carved deep with artistry’s own loom,
Through foyer blessed with rainbow-tinted light,
He followed laughter up the winding room.

He ran after her, passing the pink and blue rose bushes. blue? On and on he raced, through the heavily carved front doors and into a cool and multicolored foyer, where the sun streamed through the stained glass windows. He heard her laughter echoing up the stairs, so he climbed the curved stone steps.

Round tower high his quest at last did end,
Where mirror-glass made reality bend,
And there stood Trish in rose-hued gown of old,
Blue flowers in her hair did beauty lend.
Up and up he went, to a round tower room where the door had been left ajar. He peeked in and saw Trish standing in front of a beveled glass mirror, wearing an Edwardian rose-colored gown and arranging blue roses into her long tresses.

She turned to him with smile that lit the air,
And offered blooms both wonderful and rare,
“For you,” she said, “my bold exciting man,“
While sunlight danced on mirror’s beveled glare.

He approached breathlessly, with much anticipation; then she turned and smiled and handed him a bunch of the roses, saying, “For you, my love. You are an exciting man.”

“At last,” breathed he, as chase came to its close,
Where ancient tower held its sweet repose,
And all the trials of this mad pursuit
Found meaning in this gift of azure rose.

“At last,” he said, relieved.
“Grand Master ninja,” thus she did proclaim,
“Your training starts, though chase was but a game
To save you from the MI8’s design,
And lead you to a path of greater aim.”

She said, “I am a tenth degree Grand Master ninja and you have done very well in your preliminary training. I know that you may be a trifle angry with me, but you are a very worthy man and a totally giving person, but you were in trouble, so I had to get you away from the MI8 agents. It was your attraction to me that sped you along and saved you, and your desires shall not go unfulfilled, but first, let us begin some training in the sense of smell.”

“A rat I smelled in Denmark’s state!” quoth he,
“Though sweet your scent did lead me here to thee.”
“The pigpen’s musk,” she laughed, “was but a test
Of senses that more heightened soon shall be.”

“Well I’ll be a flabbergasted energy pattern of in and out waves, but I thought something was more than a little bit smelling like a rat in the state of Denmark, although your perfume is enchanting and enticing.”
“Sorry. How was the pig pen?”

“For animals with keener nose than man
Can teach us secrets of creation’s plan,
Ten thousand scents that humans barely know
Might open doors where wisdom’s rivers ran.”

“Smelly, even with my mere human 10,000 or so odour detectors.”
“Well, animals have do have about ten times that many; I’ll teach you how to stretch your nose and smell like a pig.”
“This is not a good time for jokes, my dearest, but it is true that I am very curious about everything, I mean, about thing, for all is one that is made of one thing: energy.”

“All things are one,” he mused, “in energy’s dance,
Yet now you speak of ways to enhance
Our mortal senses past their normal bound,
Through essence-gifts of noumenal romance.”

“New car and danger’s scent, and rose’s sweet,
Are but the start of what your nose shall meet,
For in these smells lie secrets of the Thing
Where phenomenal and Real do greet.”

“Quite right; that is the secret; you just need some of our refresheners that will aid your phenomenal life: we have new car smell, the smell of danger, the smelling of the roses, and many more hitherto unknown delights of noumena.”

“A shower calls,” quoth he, besmirched and worn,
But she: “First hear what perils must be born!
For this grand house holds ninja’s secret heart,
Where warriors unseen guard truth’s bright morn.”

“I think I need a shower; be right back.”
“All right, but first let me give you a proper introduction to what’s afoot, then we’ll resume the training upon your return.”
“Okay.”
“You are in one of our major ninja centers; you see no one else here since they are mostly off on missions of the gravest danger to the world, of which I will soon inform you. The rest of them can only be seen if they wish to to be.

“A plot so deep it bears no spoken name
Has placed false souls in halls of power’s game,
Their scent betrays them to our trained elite,
While ninja’s watch keeps evil’s reach quite tame.”

There is an evil conspiracy operating worldwide that is so secret that it doesn’t even have a name. They have already substituted three near identicals in the US Senate and two in the British Parliament. We’ve left them there, for we know who they are and we have members therein as well. It was their scent that gave them away as replacements. The ninja empire is a response to their grave threat; we operate outside of all authority, as do they.”

“Why ninjas?” asked he, seeking wisdom’s light.
“For those who’ve mastered spirit’s inner might,
Who bow to truth alone and goodness pure,
Stand guard eternal ’gainst the creeping night.”

“Why ninjas?”
“Those trained in the martial arts and mental discipline have reached great depths of self, spirit, beauty, courage, wisdom, and dependability, and that is a rare combination. They answer to none but to truth and goodness, much like you ToeQuestors.”

“Your words ring true,” said Michael, thoughts aflame,
“Like ToeQuest’s search for Thing that has no name.”
She smiled: “Your spirit shows the master’s mark,
Though you protest you’re but a man quite tame.”

“And, of course, their stealth methods are quite necessary.”
“Indeed, and as for you, it’s not often that we receive someone of your caliber, Michael; it’s a great pleasure to have you join us with your depth of commitment to truth, beauty, purity, and love.”

“A regular soul who seeks but to aid all,“
He claimed, while destiny did gently call,
For in that moment’s truth did Michael see
How far beyond the common lay his fall.

“I’m just a regular guy trying to help.”

“Think not so small of your devoted quest,
For ToeQuest stands above all mankind’s best:
Where billions dwell, but hundreds dare to seek,
And fewer still persist with truth’s behest.”

“No, on the contrary. Out of the billions of the world, only a few hundred or so are on ToeQuest, the focal point of all scientific and meditative inquiry concerning existence; of those hundreds, perhaps only 30 or so contribute; out of those, perhaps only a handful are devoted regulars.

“Like CEOs who guide vast research halls,
You few who heed the cosmic mystery’s calls
Through internet’s vast web of knowledge spread,
Stand guard where wisdom’s highest venture falls.”

So, you are a regular ToeQuestor and that is at the top of the pyramid of inquiry of all that is in the universe. That, added to the extremely useful internet, wherein scientists post results, means that you and the others are akin to CEOs managing a trillion-dollar research center through which discoveries are funneled. Exploring the great unknown is the highest calling.”

“But dark forces move in halls of might,
Through governments they spread their subtle blight,
Like ‘Nowhere Man’ whose memories were false,
Till Thomas Veil arose to set things right.”

“Thanks. What about the Government? And where is this Conspiracy?”
“They have infiltrated many governments, and so we can trust no one. They are all over, anywhere, trying to manipulate the going-ons of many countries, but they are not just political—that just gains them influence and power, and they have tried many mind-altering experiments on people, sometimes even on whole towns. They are the likes of what can be seen in the TV series, ‘Nowhere Man’. I’ll give you a DVD to watch.”
“Are they after the TOE?”
“They haven’t yet fully realized the unlimited value of that, but it’s just a matter of time…“
“How long has all this been going on?”
“They and we began many years ago when our leader, Thomas Veil, detected that they had placed false memories in him as an experiment, and so he began taking down many of their installations, almost single-handedly. They even vacated some multimillion dollar facilities overnight, just to avoid detection. But now their facilities are more secure.”

“They have not grasped the Theory’s boundless worth,
Though time may show them what pure truth gives birth,
While we, who guard the gates of knowledge true,
Must shield its power from those who’d wound the Earth.”

“And ‘Nobody’,” she smiled with knowing air,
“Is one who watches, fights, and stands to dare
Against the shadows creeping through our world -
A ninja’s truth that few may know or share.”

“Nobody…“
“…is one of us.”

“Evil reversed spells ‘live’,” he wisely saw,
While she unveiled their mission’s sacred law:
“Your power merged with TOE might aid our cause,
Though mystery still holds the foe in awe.”

“Evil must be reversed to form ‘live’.”
“That is our monumental task. Perhaps we can make use of your energizing abilities, along with those of your fellows. We have no idea where their funding comes from, who else has been transformed, the location of many of their major centers… but your destiny for the moment seems to be learning how to employ the TOE.”

“Two paths I’ll walk,” said Michael, bold and clear,
Then she: “Your quarters wait with scents most dear.”
He found a chair like home’s familiar rest,
Where wisdom’s verses spoke to eye and ear:

“I can do both.”
“Thank you. See you soon; there are hundreds of scents to choose from in your quarters.”
Michael headed off, having had a lot to take in, and sat down in a super lounge chair modeled after his own. He noted some sayings on a wall of his scented room:

“Heaven’s grace bestowed the flowers’ sweet perfume,
That memory of Eden might still bloom,
As Earth each spring renews her virgin kiss,
And scented glens recall that sacred room.”
Heaven’s patron of arts, grace, and license,
Left us sweet-smelling plants, with flowered scents
And aromas redolent: florescence
In flush and prime of days reminiscent.

Spring kisses the earth, leaving flowers there,
Like those whose perfume first scented virgin air,
As again, the fragrant glen, in Heaven’s prayer,
Hails Earth’s anniversary with flowers fair.

“Let lotus, rose, and amber lift the soul,
While jasmine, myrtle, saffron make us whole,
For in these essences of nature pure
The spirit finds its path toward wisdom’s goal.”

Pleasant smelling scents lift your heart and mine:
Essence of lotus, rose, amber, jasmine,
Night-queen, myrtle, saffron, and sandalwood
Stimulate the inner spirit sublime.

But darker verses warned of danger’s way:
“The Tuberose’s sweet power none should play,
For in its scent lies strength to wither life,
While Nightshade shows the shades where spirits stray.”

And, on another wall, some darker thoughts:

The Tuberose is a dangerous pleasure,
Even when taken in but small measure:
Its exquisite scent has such great power
That it can wither you within the hour.

If Nightshade you drink, you’ll become as so
And can see the ghosts, shades, and dark shadows
Of those who came before our humankind,
Those whose spirit-worlds overlap the mind.

Upon the final wall, dream-verses sang
Of mystic blooms where spirit-bells once rang:
Where bees and hummingbirds made music sweet,
And Baby’s Breath like frothy cloudlets sprang.
Finally, an inner-worldly saying on another wall:

Coral Bells, rung by bees and humming birds,
A melody of tones without the words,
And airy sprays of frothy Baby’s Breath,
Gurgling with all that’s much too sweet to purge,

There Lavender released its sacred scent,
Like Heaven’s own potpourri earthward sent,
While flora symbolica unfurled
Its drowsy spell till waking world grew bent.

And sweet spikes of aromatic Lavender,
All ready potpourri from Heaven’s splendor,
And, all around, the flora symbolica
To soft drowse the spirit into slumber.

These verses three upon his chamber walls
Spoke soft of beauty’s gift and danger’s calls,
Of dreams that dance between the dark and light,
Where wisdom’s perfumed essence gently falls.

And Michael, seated in his mirrored chair,
Let all these fragrant whispers fill the air,
As ninja’s path and ToeQuest’s seeking merged
In scented wisdom beyond thought’s compare.

“Such fragrances!” said Michael, fresh returned,
While she unveiled the wisdom he must learn:
“In darkness, scent guides ninja’s subtle way,
From rose to reek, each essence must be earned.”

Michael returned, feeling very much recuperated and feeling totally blessed. “I’m back. I’d never known of such pleasant fragrances.”
“Smells alert the ninja in the dark even as much as sound, the sub categories being aroma, fragrance, scent, perfume, redolence, bouquet, stench, fetor, stink, reek, and whiff.”

“The roses that I gave spoke love’s sweet art,“
Said she, “For you have captured this wild heart.”
“And you have mine,” quoth he with beating breast,
As chemistry did play its ancient part.

“So you gave me roses to enjoy the pleasure of.”
“Yes, but I am attracted to you, too.”
“The inverse also applies.”

Through wine’s bouquet and lilac’s memory sweet,
Where youth’s first love beneath its boughs did meet,
They spoke of scents that mark life’s varied way,
Till wisdom’s lesson seemed at last complete.

“Fresh flowers sing sweet songs to every nose,
While paper mills their fouler notes dispose;
Two paths of scent that mark our mortal way,
As pleasant from unpleasant Nature shows.”

“Good. Everyone appreciates the fragrance of fresh-cut flowers, but the stench from the paper mill across town is usually unwelcome. Both have a distinctive smell, which is the most general of these words for what is perceived through the nose, but there is a big difference between a pleasant smell and a foul one.”
“You can say that again.”
“That.”

“And ‘odour’,” spoke she, with British grace,
“May fair or foul its single source embrace,
Like onions that make potato eyes weep,“
Which jest made laughter light his student’s face.

“Ha. What about odours, the British spelling that Austin likes over the American ‘odors’, which somehow has an unpleasant connotation to him.”
“An odour may be either pleasant or unpleasant, but it suggests a smell that is clearly recognizable and can usually be traced to a single source, like the pungent odor of onions, which by the way, should be planted with potatoes since their eyes will water and nourish the crops.”

“While ‘aroma’ speaks of coffee’s delight,
And ‘bouquet’ hints at wine’s pleasures tonight -
Five S’s guide us through its subtle ways:
Swirl, sniff, then sip, swallow, spit if right!”

“Good explanation, and joke. I’ve done aroma-therapy.”
“An aroma is a pleasing and distinctive odor that is usually penetrating or pervasive, like the aroma of fresh-ground coffee, while bouquet refers to a delicate aroma, such as that of a fine wine. Here, have a glass. Don’t forget to swirl, sniff, sip, swallow, or spit if you are just wine sampling.”

“What of your scent?” he asked with growing fire.
“Like balsam sweet,” she smiled, “Christmas desire.”
“My lilac choice brings youth’s love back to me,
When Molly and I shared blooms’ gentle pyre.”

“What about the scent of a woman like you?”
“A scent is usually delicate and pleasing, as I try to be, with an emphasis on the source rather than on an olfactory impression, such as the scent of balsam associated with Christmas.”
“I now believe in Santa Claus. I chose a lilac fragrance from my quarters; it reminds me of my early youth in England with Molly McGuire under the fragrant bush…“

“In fragrance delicate and perfume strong,
Nature plays variations on her song,
While pigs find beauty in their earthy way,
For all is One, though forms may right or wrong.”

“Yes, fragrances can take you back in an instant to their source in a remembrance from the past. Fragrance and perfume are both associated with flowers, but fragrance is more delicate. A perfume may be so rich and strong that it is repulsive or overpowering. Of the lilac it is said:

Love’s first emotion rose from the Lilac,
For it blooms when Nature is first aroused;
It is love’s youngest dream to us come back,
Where it will ne’er again remain unspoused.”

“All this is One,” mused Michael, “energy’s dance,
From pig-sty’s stench to Heaven’s sweet romance,
For in each form the Thing reveals its face,
As countless ways that being might advance.”

“Indeed, fragrances are among the infinite variations of energy in nature. Energy may be the one thing, but it has many pleasant faces. But then there were the pigs, which, of course attractive to each other in their own way.”

“And last,” she taught, “comes stench and stinking’s art,
Where foulness does from sweetness take its part,
For in this world of countless scented things,
Each essence plays its role in wisdom’s chart.”

“Stench and stink are reserved for smells that are foul, strong, and pervasive, although stink implies a sharper sensation, while stench refers to a more sickening one: the stink of sweaty gym clothes; the stench of a rotting carcass.”

“But this,” she smiled, “is just the starting gate,
For greater tasks and perils lie in wait,
Your TOE to guard from those who’d bend its truth,
While learning secrets locked in wisdom’s state.”

“Thank you for the teachings.”
“This is only the beginning. Your journey of protecting the TOE and learning more about it will be a strenuous one, and the more we can prepare you, the better. You already have great insight into the beauty and unity of all things, from the One; your potential is as boundless as your imagination.”

“To be as One,” breathed Michael, dreams unfurled,
As “Come,” she bid, and possibility whirled
Around them both like perfume on the breeze,
Where love and duty kissed, and wisdom pearled.

“It is my dream to become one.”
“Come hither.”

He’d heard, with some alarm, of the narrow escapes of his fellow ToeQuestors and was almost worried. Michael was well aware that his nearly real name and picture appeared on his every post; the picture was small but the name could be deduced, and, so, the new MI8 group had done so, locating his residence; however, Michael awaited them, in his lounge chair, having a trick up his sleeve that he couldn’t wait to pull on them.
So, there he was posting away to 100 different threads when they arrived and surrounded him on 20 sides.

“Please come with us peacefully,” they requested. “There is no escape; we have guards on all the EXITS (WAY OUT in UK dialect) and on all the ENTRANCES (WAY IN).”
Michael smiled and simply said “I am noumena,” as he turned into pure energy, a state that could not be maintained for more than a few seconds, but time enough for him to zoom away at near the speed of light. He’d been practicing this, and it was always quite exhilarating, although he couldn’t sense as well during it. It had a refractory time of a few days, whereupon he could perform it again just by thinking ‘energize’.

Around the globe fourteen times did he speed,
Through mountain, tree, and tower with spirit freed,
Till in the Queen’s own chamber did he land -
A royal fright from his ethereal deed!

Through space he streaked, a beam of living light,
Round Earth fourteen times in his quantum flight,
Till in the Queen’s own chamber did he pause -
Her Majesty awoke in quite a fright!

Anyway, he disappeared from right in front of their eyes and took off, easily passing through buildings, trees, and mountains, and going around the world about 14 times before he materialized, of all places, next to the Queen of England in her bed at 1 AM.

The Palace guards stood stoic at their post,
As Michael, glowing like a radiant ghost,
Walked down and poured his tea with gentle grace -
Of all his tricks, this one amused him most.

Down palace stairs with mystic glow he strode,
Poured royal tea, as if ’twere his abode,
While guards stood fast, their faces carved in stone,
Though mirth did threaten their prescribed code.

She shrieked, and he calmly bowed and walked down the stairs, poured a cup of tea, and went out the front door, almost making the Buckingham Palace guards smile, for he had a certain glow, but they weren’t allowed to show any emotion.

Now mortal-bound for days, he took his leave,
His TR-3 through winding roads did weave,
Till Fortune’s wheel brought forth a humble flat -
Such Earthly bonds that even heroes grieve!
Now bound in mortal form for days to come,
To ninja wisdom’s call he must succumb,
Yet in his mind, those moments pure remain,
When with Creation’s pulse his heart beat drum.

For the next few days, he would be a merely mortal phenom and would have to be on his toes to be taller and see beyond the pale to note any tails of those hound-dogging him for the TOE or the TOT (Theory of Thing). Meanwhile, he replayed in his mind his energizing travels as a noumena, when he was one with all that is and was, although he could still appreciate the usefulness of the normal sensing form of life incarnate.

Michael decided to stay out of sight by taking a much earned vacation weekend from helping others cope, during the few days that he had before he was due at the ninja base, and so he drove his TR-3 towards the hills and beyond for one last romp. He turned his engine loose, roaring onto the open road. He was doing at least 5 KPH over the speed limit, weaving gracefully around the slower moving cars.

Towards hills and vales his TR-3 did race,
Five units past the law’s decreed swift pace,
When Fortune’s wheel did turn with mocking spin -
His chariot protested with ill grace.

“O cursèd fate!” the wanderer did cry,
As by the road his pristine suit awry,
He wrestled with the wheel of bitter chance,
When lo! An angel’s presence caught his eye.

Upon the road, a vision pure and bright,
Like dawn’s first ray that pierces through the night,
Left Michael standing, speechless, tire in hand,
His heart suspended in its swift delight.

While changing tires beside the dusty way,
His pristine suit now smudged in disarray,
A vision bright appeared upon the road -
As Heaven’s answer to his heart that day.

His car was running rough for some reason: bumpity, bumpity, bump. “Damn!” A flat tire. It was always something like that with this rolling junk pile that was once a sports car. Michael made a vow to replace his TR-3 with a Porsche, while preparing to fix the flat tire by the side of the narrow road in his spotless white sport suit.

Michael took the spare tire out of the trunk, carefully trying not to let it touch his pristine white leisure suit as he juggled it over to the wheel. He jacked up the car and removed the flat tire. “Dang nab it!” he swore at his car when he got a smudge on his pants from the old tire. It was then that he saw her driving by, a bright vision from Heaven come to answer his dreams. He could hardly believe what he saw.

A yellow streak of Ferrari’s pride,
At speeds that made the wind’s force multiplied,
Swept past our hero on his roadside pause,
While dust clouds dimmed his garments’ former pride.

She was driving a yellow Testarossa, breaking the speed limit and hitting at least 125 MPH, almost blowing him off the shoulder of the road. “Darn!” Now his white suit had become a dusty gray. He got a good look at her, though, since she had her top down.

Her trailing scarf danced like a banner bright,
Her plate read “TRISH” - he knew at first sight:
“SHE’S THE ONE!” he cried with joy complete,
Till Theory’s quest fled from his mind’s delight.

Her hair and scarf trailed out behind her as she sped away along the hilly road. Her license plate just read “TRISH“. “She’s the one,” he said quietly to himself, then more loudly, “That’s her! Forget Everything for a while,” then yelling it out in celebration, “SHE’S THE ONE! THAT’S THE WOMAN FOR ME!” He could hardly contain himself, and he even stopped thinking about the Theory of Thing for a while.

(Hey, how come Michael gets a girl in his story when no one else did? Well, just because; plus we can’t always leave half the world out.)
With haste he gave pursuit along the way,
His humble TR-3 in smoky spray,
Could scarce achieve the mountain road’s demands,
While she, swift goddess, would not deign to stay.

He quickly twisted the lug nuts back on the wheel, jumped into his ‘car’ and raced after her, but, unfortunately, his old TR-3 could do only 85 MPH or so on the switch back upgrades. A bit of smoke poured from his engine, suggesting that he was burning oil and would never catch her.

But Fate, that fickle mistress of our days,
Led both their paths to cross in fortune’s maze,
Where fast food’s temple stood beside the road,
And there she stood within his wondering gaze.

Then he got lucky, for he spotted her car parked outside a fast food restaurant. That’s her type of food, he thought, he having once eaten slow food: escargot. As he drove into the parking lot, she was already walking out with a hamburger in her hand.

“Fair Trish,” spoke Michael, bold in love’s command,
“I seek your heart, your style so grand!”
She smiled and offered challenge in reply:
“Keep pace with me - then you may win my hand!”

He always thought fast and so he walked right up to her and spoke directly, as usual, “Trish, my name is Michael and I’m on my way up in the world of Thing. I am falling in love with you and your style, and so I would like to take you out tonight and get to know you very well.”
She answered spontaneously, too: “OK, Michael, I’ll make a deal with you, one that we’ll both enjoy. If you can keep up with me throughout the day, then you can have me tonight. And get that suit cleaned!”

With french fries gifted from her fleeing form,
He watched her car kick dust in swirling storm,
His suit now darker than the evening’s shade -
Yet hope burned bright where passion’s flames were born.

She handed him the remains of her french fries and quickly roared off in her new Testarossa, its wheels spinning and spitting even more dirt onto Michael, turning his now gray suit to a dark brown color.
Her antics only convinced him all that more that she was the girl for him; for she seemed rich, daring, confident, attractive, sexy, and so full of energy.

What charms she held! What grace in every part!
Rich, daring, wise; she pierced straight through his heart,
Her eyes that spoke of mysteries untold,
Her presence made his very soul restart.

Plus she had a ready wit and was good-looking, too. She had long hair, a body that was alive, and erotic, exotic features. Her eyes had looked straight into him! She was more than fine; she just oozed with charm, personality, and sex appeal.

He stood transfixed where empty air remained,
While far below, her car’s wild song proclaimed:
“Wild and free!” The anthem of her soul,
As with a wave, his frozen spirit claimed.

He stood there, dazed for a moment, still talking to the air that she’d just vacated.
Already he could see her car speeding along the road below, her radio music blaring some music that sang … wild and free, that’s what I want to be! She looked up and gave him a wave, urging him on, and this shook him out of his trance. He even managed to wave back, although he felt like a frozen statue and could hardly lift his arm.

Unknown to him, eighteen blue cars drew near,
The MI8 in pursuit severe,
While Michael raced his chariot with might,
Down winding paths where danger lurked so clear.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Michael, 18 blue MI8 sedans had located him and were hot on his trail, although still some miles back. Michael ran to his car and raced down the hillside after her, going faster and ever faster, even running off onto the shoulder several times, and then almost going off the side of the road.

Through curves that tested steel and spirit’s nerve,
Each downshift prayer that he might yet preserve
His chase of love along the mountain’s spine,
While ancient TR-3 fought each steep swerve.

The curves were real tricky and so he had to assist the car’s braking by downshifting into second gear, sometimes even into first. He couldn’t keep up with her, of course, but at least he could still see her now and then down the other side He was pushing his car to its limit and loving every minute of it.

The thrill of chase sang through his racing blood,
As natural opiates released their flood,
Past trucks he darted, courting death’s embrace,
While wisdom whispered: “Tempt not fate’s dark flood!”

His heart beat time to passion’s wild command,
As mountain roads stretched through the misty land,
Each glimpse of yellow streak that caught his eye
Drew him toward destiny’s appointed hand.

Oh, the thrill of it! And for good reason, too: love. This was not just simple speeding, it was speeding for a purpose, speeding as if his life depended on it, or at least his love life. Michael immediately became enamored of the exhilaration of the chase, as the stress and excitement caused adrenaline and natural opiates to be loosened in his overworked ToeQuesting brain. He took a chance, passing a slow moving truck in the no-passing lane, and was just barely able to tuck back in time. He told himself: Don’t do that again!

As death he courted on the winding way,
Past loves appeared like ghosts of yesterday,
“Women are cars,” his racing mind declared,
“And Trish, a racer living for today!”

As he courted death, his love lives flashed before him. Women were like cars, he thought. Trish, of course, was a race car, revving her engine to the limit, taking every turn to the edge, and living every moment as if it were her last.

While station wagons plod with cautious care,
Their drivers bound to duties everywhere,
His Trish lived free upon the razor’s edge,
Her spirit soaring through the mountain air.

Others, on the other hand, were more like station wagons: stable, sturdy, reasonable, sensible, and dependable, but unexciting, and, thus he thought, wastefully frittering their lives away by their attendance to the most mundane details of nothing that much mattered.

His trusty car, though valiant in its tries,
Could scarce keep pace where passion’s challenge lies,
Till fortune smiled - she turned toward wooded vale,
A meadow’s trap where love might claim its prize.

Michael was falling behind, although doing the best that he could in his unsporty car, but an old jalopy compared to hers. Luckily, he saw her turn off into a small wooded valley between two hilly ridges. Now he had her, he thought; now there was no escape possible, for it was just a little dirt road trailing off into a meadow and a farm. Only a few more moments and they’d be together in sensual bliss.

His phone then rang with ninja’s coded speech:
“What doing? Danger near with strangers’ reach!”
“Wrong number, friend,” was Michael’s swift reply,
His mind fixed firm on love within his reach.

Michael’s cell phone rang, and a worried ninja informed him that he was being pursued and that he should ditch the car and take cover: “What doing? Stranger dangers; be angered.”
Michael replied, “Sorry, you have the wrong number.”

But what strange sounds now filled the meadow fair?
What rainbow colors danced upon the air?
Hot air balloons, their tethers soon to break,
Were waiting winged to rise without a care!

As he neared the meadow he heard some great whooshing sounds that were familiar but couldn’t quite be placed. Rainbow colors could be seen through the trees. What was all this? And then he understood. Of course! Hot air balloons! The balloons were ready for launch, their baskets peopled, their ropes even now being untied from the stakes. This was not so good news. Soon the sky would fill with all these balloons and he’d never find her! He was in a frenzy!

His frenzied heart found calm in searching glance,
He spied her chariot in quick advance,
Beside a crimson-yellow floating sphere,
Where fate prepared its next step in love’s dance.

He cleared his mind, and calmly but quickly looked for her car; ah, there it was, next to a balloon that was colored bright red and yellow.

“Make haste, dear Michael!” came her siren call,
As floating craft began its upward crawl,
“To Emerald City, come with me!” she cried,
While ropes dragged past him, teasing with their thrall.

“Hurry up, Michael” she said, as her balloon began to lift off, its ropes still dragging on the ground past him. “Come with me to the Emerald City!” Just then the basket left the ground. Michael grabbed onto the rope and ran with it for awhile, thinking crazily that he could somehow climb up it.

Though heights did strike his heart with mortal dread,
Love conquered fear as ancient wisdom said,
He clutched the rope that lifted him aloft,
While ground below grew distant as he sped.

There was only one problem: he was afraid of heights!

Nevertheless, love conquered fear and so he held on to the rope as it gently lifted him off of the ground.pastedGraphic_2.pngpastedGraphic_3.pngpastedGraphic_4.pngpastedGraphic_5.png
But panic seized his soul in fickle grip,
As higher rose his unintended trip,
He spied soft hay that promised gentle fall,
And let his fingers from the lifeline slip.

He soon had second thoughts, however, and panicked, realizing that he was almost getting too high to let go.

Alas! The fates that govern mortal lands
Had other plans for suitors’ bold demands,
For not in haystack did our hero land,
But midst the pigs where darkest muck expands!

He looked down and saw a barnyard filled with soft hay, and so, giving up the stunt as hopeless, let go of the rope and fell a short and harmless distance to the ground, but missed the hay, landing smack in the middle of the pigs’ feeding area.

His suit once white as winter’s purest snow,
Now blacker than the void where no stars glow,
Stood testament to love’s demanding quest,
And depths to which a seeker’s heart might go.

His white suit was now as black as coal in the nothing of a void at night with no moon.

From heights above, she called with merry jest,
“Take heart!” and flung her keys at his behest,
“Find me where’er the winds may guide my way!
In Kansas now no more, pursue your quest!”

Trish looked down and was much amused at his discomfort, but was also relieved to see that he was OK. “Don’t give up, young chap!” she yelled down to him. “Here are my car keys,” she said, as she threw her set of keys down to him. “Come and find me wherever I land. Follow me. You’re not in Kansas anymore, my good man!”

Midst curious pigs that snuffled at his plight,
He pondered if love’s chase brought such delight,
Till from his trunk fresh garments did appear,
To clothe anew this mud-bespattered knight.

Michael was sitting in the muck, surrounded by the curious living pork chops, bacons, and hams, and wondering if this so-called adventure of love business was really worth it all. A pig ambled over to investigate, rubbing its nose over him, perhaps thinking that Michael was some new form of food. Michael pulled himself up, picked up the car keys, and then changed into his sports clothes, which he had luckily kept in the trunk of his car.

Her chariot of gold now his to steer,
Each button, switch, and dial crystal clear,
When overhead her craft did sail once more,
And logic fled before his passion’s peer.

He walked over to her beautiful Testarossa and sat in it, admiring it, much like he had often done in the new car showrooms, twiddling with this and every knob, trying out every button. He thought of gaining safety in the ninja base that had to be nearby, but Trish presently sailed overhead and thereby erased all logical thinking. Satisfied with knowing where every switch was in the car, Michael drove off, and tried to keep Trish’s balloon in sight, but soon lost it, then found it, then lost it again among the ridges.

Through winding roads his quest did now pursue,
As compass guided where her balloon flew,
Now seen, now lost among the ridges high,
While updrafts bore her swift beyond his view.

Not straight the path that led to love’s domain,
For roads care not for heart’s directest gain,
Yet Michael tracked her course with steadfast will,
As mountain winds sang their sweet refrain.

She was moving fast on the updrafts. However, at each sighting, he took note of her general direction, referring to the car compass, and was generally able to make progress toward her, though by no means directly, because there was not always a road available in the direction that he needed to go.

At one with steel and power now he flew,
This chariot of dreams proved swift and true,
While lesser cars made way with cautious haste,
As wealth’s mere semblance parted seas of blue.

Now this is a car, he thought, as he began to put it through its paces. Why, I feel like I am a part of it, he marveled, as it held the corners due to its low center of gravity and its wide stable body. The greatest part of driving it was seeing the other cars on the road give way to him, all figuring him to be ultra rich and of course not wanting to take a chance of bumping him and scratching a $200,000 car. So this is what it feels like to be a millionaire!

“Speed faster!” ninja voices urged by phone,
But Michael brushed such warnings with a groan,
More pressing were the score of cars behind,
That followed him through valleys not alone.

“Faster, MK,” said another ninja cell phone caller.
“Stop bothering me. I don’t want to buy a new condo!”
However, Michael did heartily take of note the now 24 sedans following him, although they were a ways back, and put the pedal through the heavy metal of the radio.

Through miles he tracked her floating silhouette,
His heart a compass that could not forget,
Till tunnel’s darkness swallowed up his path,
And panic’s moment claimed its brief regret.

He drove and drove and drove some more and soon passed the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, where he was still supposed to practice some things; however, he had noted six dust trails or devils following him many miles behind.

Then Nobody’s dark warning touched his mind:
A future glimpse of mankind’s fate entwined
With warming globe—a wrong turn taken when
Through cosmic waves his path had been defined.

Prof remembered that Nobody, in a private message to all, had hinted at some dark and very probable futures for the Earth that he’d observed when taking a wrong turn in time during the CMBR trip, one of them being the fate of Earth from global warming.

Yet hope still flickered in this somber tale:
The ToeQuestors’ knowledge might prevail,
If wisdom’s race against the coming doom
Could grant them time to pierce the future’s veil.

However, all was not lost, for the goodhearted ToeQuestors could perhaps use their knowledge of the newly discovered TOE to alter the dim future, somehow, if only they could learn all the nuances quick enough over the coming years, ahead of the doom.

In visions dark with biblical disguise,
Profpat beheld what future might arise;
The Theory’s truth, if properly refined,
Could lift mankind toward wonder-gilded skies.

Profpat remembered watching the video of a possible dark future that was couched in biblical allegory for concealment of its revelations. Furthermore, the knowledge of the real TOE, if refined and understood well enough, could lead to amazing wonders that could never have even been imagined in this age, all good things, of course.

But governments with conquest in their hearts
Must never grasp these transcendental arts;
For naturalists would see such glory bright,
Beyond mere beauty nature now imparts.

Surely, it could not be trusted to governments with visions of dominance by conquest over Toequest. The naturalist, for instance, would be able to absorb with awestruck reverence scenes of overpowering sublimity far beyond the simple prettiness on offer now.

Musicians too would hear celestial strains,
Surpassing all that mortal ear contains;
The mystics’ spheres would seem as children’s toys
Compared to these supreme harmonic reigns.

A musician would be able to hear and play music more exhilarating and heartfelt than anyone had ever dreamed of. The celestial music of the spheres heard by the mystics would become as a child’s toy flute in comparison to this grand and ultimate symphony.

And lovers would discover pleasures new,
Beyond what flesh had ever wandered through;
By thought alone such ecstasy would bloom,
Pure joy untainted, guiltless through and through.
The sensualist would discover that what had passed for deep and passionate sex had been merely a pleasant prelude. Erotic pleasure of an intensity that flesh had never known would become enjoyable without guilt, even by thought alone.

The painter’s eye would capture realms divine,
In holographic splendor, line by line;
While scientists with minds expanded vast
Would pierce the veils where mysteries combine.

A painter or patron of the visual arts would be able to behold representative vision in a holographic reality of indescribable glory and completeness.
Scientists would be able to apply a googolplex of neurons to their thought experiments, rivaling Einstein’s fortunate ‘ah-ha’ moments, all of the time, to reveal much of what was unknown between heaven and Earth.

Old conflicts born of selfish, stubborn ways
Would yield to reason’s clear, enlightened rays;
As medicine would ease the mind’s dark pains,
And wars would fade like mist in morning haze.

Arguments by people insisting on their own selfish ways would melt into a new sense of increased reasoning, just as bad and aversive emotions would be greatly lessened by new and safer medical miracles. Wars would become much reduced, and humanity at large could finally progress beyond its everyday suffering.

Even mundane losses would decrease their hold —
Those keys and glasses lost in days of old
Would cease their vanishing along time’s tracks,
As human suffering’s tide began to fold.

People would actually remember their car keys and glasses that had often and usually piled up at the vanishing point of the ‘lost and found’, which was at the end of the converging railroad tracks.

Yet through all ages, glimpses rare and bright
Had blessed some souls with momentary light;
Like candles flickering in eternal dark,
Then fading swift into oblivion’s night.

Of course, throughout the ages there had always been those rare and mystical moments as described above, for some enlightened and peaceful souls or those in love, but they were just fleeting glimpses of a rare light that lit their minds for a while as a flickering candle, when all one’s thoughts perfectly conjuncted, but then, as always, they soon dispersing and moving on into the oblivion of forgotten dreams.

But would the sickness of our present age,
The power-drunk rulers on their mortal stage,
Destroy the noble ToeQuest’s sacred aim?
This thought did all their worried hearts engage.

Or… would the contagion of the sickness, immaturity, and ignorance of the present human condition of those in power thwart the best efforts of the noble ToeQuestors…

Thus did Profpat and comrades brave and true,
Beyond mere fantasy of comic view,
Unite in quest for noumenal divine —
Upon their strength fate’s tapestry now grew.

All of the preceding is why Profpat and the others escaping to safety had found a renewed vigor and strength and were now going way beyond the comic Fantastic Four to form a phenomenal team of noumena seekers, consisting of many talented and diverse individuals that the fate of the universe now depended on.

Through mountain roads with nitro’s urgent might,
Profpat sped upward toward the snow-crowned height;
While warnings crackled through the static’s veil:
“Make haste! The Feds approach! Take wing in flight!”

So, Profpat had driven across the plains through the badlands was now speeding up the Rocky Mountain road, having turned on his nitro tanks. He had just received an update: “Go faster, six more Feds and Fed-exes coming up other side of mountain; you need reach peak before them. Hurry, scurry, flurry; make haste; expedite. Click.”

With glider spread like eagle’s wings of steel,
He soared above where mortals often kneel;
Though tranq-darts traced their rainbow through the air,
Their arcs fell short, their threat could never seal.

Profpat turned on more afterburners, and finally reached the mountain’s peak, unloaded his hang glider, and took off above the clouds. He dipsy-doodled at first but soon got the hang of the glider. This is marvelous, he thought, it feels as if the wings are an extension of my self; I am a phoenix on eagle’s wings.
Some Feds fired at him from quite a distance with their high powered tranquilizer rifles, but the darts merely formed gravity’s rainbow.

For miles he sailed past Rocky Mountain’s breast,
Each thermal draft a gift, each touch impressed;
The Earth below seemed small, its conflicts dim
As ant-wars viewed from heights of eagle’s nest.

The hang glider responded to Pat’s slightest touch and he became acclimated to it. Passing hundreds of miles past the Rockies and not really losing much altitude, he learned to sense the updrafts or spot dirt fields from which the heat would be rising. Prof saw the Earth a bit differently now, being a skynaut, its petty squabbles now seen to be as meaningless as ants fighting over a crumb.

A cigarette, a coffee’s steaming share,
While drifting through the mountain-scented air;
The world beneath lay open like a shell,
Its vastness now his playground, free and fair.

Another, smaller, mountain range gave him some needed lift, and thus he sailed on, lit a cigarette, and had a sip of coffee. The world was opened as an oyster to him, and was also now his ashtray and his outhouse.

In San Francisco’s towers gleaming bright,
He landed midst the accountants’ domain of might;
To speak of GAAP and ledgers ancient lore,
Where debits dance with credits through the night.
Profpat landed in San Francisco and began his lecture on ‘Being Accountable’, in some colossal skyscraper’s conference room whose grandeur befitted the importance of Accounting, for where would the world be without transactions, the accounting of which was the very ‘language of business’.

But lecture’s dullness proved a secret boon,
As Fed-Ups charged like hares beneath the moon;
Sharp pencils flew like arrows through the air,
Some foes erased by graphite’s mystic rune.

The lecture was entitled: ‘The GAAP Between the CPA and the CGA in Using the IFRS’.
“The basic accounting principles of the double-entry debit-credit system have not changed since the days of ancient Greece and Rome, in that we must stay up all night until they balance, that is, until Enron dropped out of the Big Five that we now call the Big Four…”
Profpat threw very sharp pencils at them, greatly slowing them down, accidentally erasing a few of them, along with some quarks, income tacks, big accounts, and some green eyeshades, and then disappeared behind the curtain, and ran up the stairs toward the skyscraper’s roof, not even stopping for a smoke or at a pencil sharpener.
The lecture was about to go on, but it was so boring that Austin’s story allows the waiting Fed-Ups to immediately rush toward the podium.

Up spiral stairs our hero swiftly flew,
While down below the Feds’ confusion grew;
Their lawyer mocked: “These stairs that downward wind,
Do they not also climb to heaven’s blue?“

The Feds ran down the stairs, and found no one but their lawyer, who said, “You fools. These stairs that go down; do they not also go up?” So, he reversed his charges and sent them up, but a bit too late, for Profpat was already winging away, like a duck; no, wait, ducks were in Fredrick’s story.

Like fowl upon the wind he soared away,
While black sedans turned choppers joined the fray;
A message whispered of a stealth ship’s aid
Beyond the borders where the waters lay.

He winged away like a fowl bird, air-foiling the Federals yet again. The Feds called in six black FBI sedan helicopters (see, Profpat, maybe you should have bought one) to follow him, as he received another message: “Stealth black ninja aircraft carrier waiting for you beyond US boundary in international waters.”

Through clouds he dove with open mouth to drink,
Like mouse before the feline’s watchful blink;
Till fog consumed the chase like melting cheese,
And hunters lost their quarry’s trail to think.

Profpat flapped his seemingly real and movable organs for flying (wings) and rose and dove in rises and dives to outwit the helicopters and lose them for a while as he flew through a cloud with his mouth open to get a drink of the refreshing water droplets. It was cat and mouse for a while until the cheese disappeared in the fog.

The Golden Gate lent thermals to his flight,
As twilight faded into starless night;
But as the shore breeze died in evening’s shroud,
His wings began to sink from heaven’s height.

He then used the heat rising off the Golden Gate Bridge to fly on through the end of twilight, intending to use the darkness for cover beyond the city’s lights; however, this ending of dusk also meant that the ocean was no longer trading brisk breezes with the shore and that he would begin to lose altitude.

“O Death!” he cried, “Where lies thy victory?
While ebon wings enfold and set me free,
Where is thy sting?” as thirty feet per breath
He dropped toward the dark, eternal sea.

Death! where is thy Victory?
To triumph whilst I die,
To triumph whilst thine ebon wing
Enfolds my shuddering soul.
Death! where is thy sting?
(Shelley)

Sure enough, he began dropping 30 feet a second over the ocean and still had 25 miles to go…

All life’s accounts flashed past his reddened gaze—
The taught, the sought, the fought of mortal days;
Like stone he dropped, then spread his wings to soar,
The maddest scholar lost in ocean’s haze.

This is it; I’m an overdue account, pound foolish, though penny wise, but overdrawn. At least they didn’t get the TOE from me! Noughts, oughts, and all that he ever taught, bought, sought, and fought flashed before his red-inked eyes as he intentionally dropped like a stone for short whiles before flaring his wings to catch the air and turn potential energy into kinetic to gain forward progress out to sea, he far and away the nuttiest professor now.

“Time now to square accounts with heaven’s throne,
For seeking Truth that flesh has never known;
My life was borrowed, spent on fortune’s scroll,
Each debit matched with credit, joy for loan.”

Time to square accounts with my maker on account of my curiosity to account for Everything; money is of no account now; from Death my life was a borrowed debit, but I spent it, loved it, and lived it, on good fortune’s credit.

The brine rose up to claim its salted prize,
As Prof and Pat shared final compromise;
“We’re dropping out,” they smiled into the dark,
“Our number called beneath these starless skies.”

It was no use; Profpat was going to fall into the ocean. He could sense the moisture, almost taste the brine, and was soon going to swim with the smell of the fishes. Good try, said Prof to Pat, his other selfsame, but you’re not going to pass this course. It’s OK, said Pat to Prof, I’m dropping out; my number is up.

But lo! What light breaks through the shrouded deep?
A carrier’s halo gleams across the leap;
Yin-Yang in perfect balance shines below,
As heaven’s pattern wakes from darkness’ sleep.

Good old Prof was ready to yin his yang in the fine way that he lived: in the black, all the books balanced except for a spot of white in the darkness of the Yin. What’s that below?

One final push, one last heroic strain,
Thirty feet down to safety’s blessed plane;
The ninja ship receives its destined guest,
Then darkness claims the ocean once again.

The landing lights of the ninja carrier’s heliopad flashed on in the glorious pattern of heaven, heat, and light, combined with earth, dark, and cold, each revolving around the other, the Yin/Yang symbol of a cyclic and rounded life, and Profpat dropped thirty feet, gave one last push forward, and landed just as the carrier’s lights went back off.

“Welcome, Professor,” spoke a voice of night,
While pencil-point pierced through the absent light;
“You live through glory now,” the voice declared,
“Though death’s embrace makes life burn twice as bright.”

“Welcome, Professor” said a voice in the wilderness of the darkness of nothing, “Breeze die down so we come to you, at full power.”
“I’ll show you a thing or 2.5,” said Prof, pointing a pencil into the inky blackness of night.
“Ouch! I get the point, but really now, PatrickPro, you just live through great experience of glory of life.”
“To die for glory is not living!”
“Man who face death appreciate life more. This good training for future of save yiniverse and yangiverse.”
“Well, that is my questionable long and arduous search.”
“See, quest great expedition. I train you in number of things. I am 9.0 degree Grand Master.”

The Ninth Degree Grand Master, wise with jest,
Posed riddles that put wisdom to the test;
“What’s one plus one?” “Two!” “No, when sand piles merge,
They form but one” - thus was the truth expressed.

“Now, take two apples from three apples; what do you have?”
“One?”
“No, you took two, remember; they are in your hand.”
“Hardy-har, Proffer, what be one plus one.”
“Two?”
“No, they were sand piles and all lump into one bigger one.”

They traded quips of numbers, dark, and light,
Of dyslexia’s reversed delight;
“What’s darkest dark?” asked Prof, and Nine replied
With verse of Shadow, Space, and Love’s sweet plight.

“Do you know accounting, Grand Master, ninth degree ninja, emperor of the multiverse?”
“Just call me number nine. I no good account; get digits mixed up, but make million that way. What you do on other ledger side?”
“I color quarks through the prism of super strings and theorize the emission of an electron from the proton.”
“Nuclear ‘unclear’ to me. Have dyslexia. Am member of DNA.”
“DNA?”
“National Dyslexics Association.”
“Ok, ninja, good one, but it’s not good to make light of handicaps unless you really have one.”
“Ok, #9, what is fifty quadrillion, thirty cotillions, 6 pillions, and…”
“That too hard.”
“…times zero?”
“Oh, it be zip. Quiz: What correct grammar: Six and seven ARE fourteen or six and seven IS fourteen?”
“Thirteen.”
“Ah, that unlucky number, plus this part 13 of story.”
“I always stay on the 14th floor of hotels, so I am safe, plus I never include a chapter 11 in my books, for that is filing for bankruptcy. Anyway, 13 at the last supper works for me.”
“I have a #9 in my name but it silent.”
“Ho-ho. Are the ToeQuestors days numbered?”
“Yes, today August 30 on calendar. Now, what best digit?”
“The toe, but not at the moment since I stubbed it on your deck on a big black dot.”
“Want me call tow truck? Ha. So, how old you?”
“An uncounted, innumerable, untold amount.”
“How see four sunset in one day?”
“Run up a hill.”
“Want come in out of dark? Start training?”
“Yes, but what is the darkest dark of all?”
“‘I’m the darkest,’ said the Shadow to the Night.’
“‘No,’ said Midnight, ‘compared to me you’re bright.’
“‘You floodlights!’ said Starless Space, ‘Stop your fight.’
“‘The darkest plight is the lack of love’s delight!’”
“You good man, Prof. Come aboard.”
“Thanks, niner. How did they catch onto me?”
“Government try spend $787.00 from account on one screwdriver, come up 3 penny short; do some million-dollar audit.”
“Well, it was only a matter of time.”
“Here postcard from Fredrick. What say?”
“It says that the twaining of training is going well; he is learning diesel.”

The pencil proved extension of the mind,
As reality’s illusions were defined;
“The brain creates the world we think we know,
Like glider’s wings with self became combined.”

“Ah, good news. OK, now we do test of touch. Ah, see you have pencil.”
“This is my best pencil; let’s not ruin it. I began the theory of the proton with it, and the remainder of the theory is still inside this pencil somewhere.”
“We do no harm. Hold pencil and run it across chair seat fabric; no, wait, use eraser end so not write autograph; now, rub; you seem to feel texture at pencil end?”
“Yes, amazing, it feels like an extension of my fingers, but of course I have no sense organs way out there.”
“So then, brain fabricate reality, just like hang glider wing seem part of you.”
“True, so that’s why I couldn’t afford a helicopter!”
“Yes, PatProf, and so you ‘see’ that we only see inside of head where all is fabricate.”
“I agree. I fabricate you, scents and odours fabricate from molecule shapes in the nostrils, and sounds fabricate from air vibrations, as well as colors from waves and even the illusion of light itself in a dark head, especially during my favorite pastime of sleeping and dreaming.”

“You tune like TV to the world’s great show,
But sleep too much has dimmed your sensing’s glow;
I’ll teach you touch at distance, pole unseen—”
“With ladies near?” Prof jest’d, “I must say no!”

“You good illusion of physical world, being like some TV tuner receive broadcast from far. But, you somewhat out of touch from doze too much, so I teach you touch base ten feet away with invisible ten foot pole.”
“With my girlfriends around or not around? I don’t know about that.”
“That be touch down, but recall for illegal procedure.”

“What touched you last?” the Master slyly asked,
As Prof demurred, his private thoughts unmasked;
“Some matters best left wrapped in mystery’s veil,
While wisdom’s deeper meanings go untasked.”

“Now, what touch lately?”
“That’s personal.”

They spoke of Eden’s ancient touch of sin,
Of knowledge lost and found and lost again;
“One day we’ll hang the apple back,” said Prof,
“And heal Creation’s pain since time’s begin.”

“Ah, sorry. Why kids touch something when tell not to?”
“It all started in the Garden of Eden.”
“Ah, very touching story of dumb people made by smart god.”
“You’re still holding two apples.”
“Ah, yes, you funny. We make apple sauce and welcome you for training, Grand Master Professor and Temporal TOE Protector of Universe that can someday give good life to all.”
“One day we will hang Adam’s apple back on the Tree of Knowledge and hopefully help correct the distortion and sadness of all the 13.75 billion years of creation.”

“By Tutankhamun’s tomb!” he softly swore,
“They seek the TOE, and something even more:
My sketched design of forces nuclear,
The pyramid of power at its core!”

“By Tutankhamun’s tomb!” his spirit cried,
“The TOE they seek to wield with boundless pride!
My sketched design of nuclear demands,
Where force pyramidal does yet reside!”

Holy King Tut’s tomb! he exclaimed. They really want to control the world with the TOE! They are probably after my drawing, too, the one showing the pyramidal opposition of the weak and strong nuclear forces and the transition of the electric and magnetic forces.

His pistol nestled close beneath his arm,
He walked the streets, affecting casual charm,
When rang his phone with broken foreign speech:
“Your pyramid betrayed you—flee from harm!”

His pistol’s weight gave comfort as he strode,
While questions of discovery rode,
Till phone-spoke voice in broken accent sang:
“Your pyramid before your house has showed.

He patted his underarm, checking that his pistol was still there, and sauntered down the street. How did they find me? His cell phone rang and a voice said, “How find you, Mr. Fred, is by pyramid in front yard.”

Make haste unto the station’s northern gate,
Where nine-oh-five shall bear you from your fate.”
The line went dead with swift decisive click,
As Time’s swift hands did mock him while he wait.

Please proceed train station. 9:05 train north. Hurry. Click.”

The tunnel’s mouth before him grimly gaped,
Its center dimly lit, its shadows draped
By single bulb that cast its meager glow—
He pressed ahead, lest from his train escaped.

Fredrick walked and jogged a ways without further incident and entered a tunnel that would take him under the train tracks to the station. He hesitated, at first, seeing that the tunnel was dimly lit by only a single light bulb in the center, but then moved on in, not wanting to miss the train.

His phone’s shrill warning pierced the tunnel’s gloom:
“Four crimson KGB sedans spell doom!
They race from either end to trap you here—
Make haste to plot, or this shall be your tomb!”

His cell phone began ringing off the hook and alerted him as follows: “Four KGB red sedans arriving each end of tunnel. Make good plan fast!”

He shed his sweater in the center’s light,
Where lone bulb cast its beam through tunneled night.
The sedans’ screech and crash of dented steel
Announced his foes had come to end his flight.

Fredrick reflected a moment, sizing up the scene. He quickly walked to the center of the tunnel, took off his sweater, draped it over his shoulder, and stood under the lone light. He could hear the red KGB sedans screeching to a halt at each end, some of them going a bit too far and denting their fenders. Very poor and reckless drivers!

Eight agents moved with weapons raised to strike,
Their tranquilizing darts poised to dislike.
“Hands up!” the leader barked in English clear,
While guards stood watch at endings of the pike.
Eight KGB agents entered the tunnel and three of them approached from either direction, the remaining two staying back as rear guards, one at each end of the tunnel.

“No,” Fredrick answered, calm amid their threat.
“Raise hands or sleep!” they warned without regret.
“First tell me who commands,” he calmly spoke,
As closer still their circling dance was set.

“Hands up,” said the KGB leader, in English, as they all pointed tranquilizer guns at Fredrick, front and back.
“No.”

“Colonel Patov,” came the proud reply,
“With Captain Demetri’s team from rear draws nigh.
Submit to search and come in peace,” he urged,
“Or tranquilized and beaten you shall lie.”

“Must I repeat the command; raise up your hands or go to sleep!”
“No,” replied Fredrick, “I must know who asks me?“

The agents approached a bit closer. “I am famous Colonel Patov; you will follow orders or be subdued and severely beaten. Behind you is Demetri, my best and most merci–less captain, with his team. You have no-where to go, Fredrick. Raise your hands, be searched; come with us peacefully and we won’t even have to use the tranquilizer darts.”

“Since you insist,” spoke Fredrick with a smile,
His hands rose slowly in surrendering style.
“No contest here—I’ll pass the other side,
As lights go out in this dim tunnel’s mile.”

“Okay,” answered Fredrick, “as long as you put it that way.”
The agents approached slowly from Fredrick’s front and back as he began to raise his hands. They were about twenty feet away now. “No contest,” said Fredrick, “I’ll be passing on to the other side. It’s lights out for me!”

With swift resolve he smashed the bulb above,
His sweater fixed where light once shed its love,
Then shoeless, loosed a scream that seemed to fill
Each corner of the tunnel’s darkened grove.

Fredrick raised his hands quickly and smashed the light bulb, then attached his sweater to the fixture, having noted the spot beforehand, slipped off his shoes and left them there, and let out a blood curdling scream that seemed to echo from all directions at once.

The agents, thinking Fredrick charged their line,
Shot darts through darkness thick as ancient wine,
While he pressed silent ’gainst the tunnel wall,
As chaos bloomed within their grand design.

The KGB thought Fredrick was charging them, but in actuality he had just slipped sideways, noiselessly, without his shoes, and had squatted down, hugging the wall of the tunnel that had just been plunged into total darkness.

“Hold fire!” Patov called. “We strike our own!
Two men are down!” Their discord clearly shown.
“Join hands and sweep the walls,” the colonel cried,
“He lurks between us still, though not yet known!”

Darts began flying through the darkness, towards the screech, but Patov, a seasoned KGB veteran, called out, “Stop, we’re only hitting each other. I have one down. Demetri?“
“One as well, Colonel.”
Patov added quickly, “Link hands and sweep ahead, touching the walls; he is still somewhere between us.”

A coat brushed past where Fredrick crouched in shade,
While at his sweater wild confusion played—
Agents thrashing at his empty clothes,
Their blind assaults a comedy displayed.

Fredrick felt the edge of a coat almost touch him, but, just about then the agents reached his hanging sweater and his shoes on the floor there was an intense struggle with Fredrick’s abandoned clothes and shoes, some agents even punching each other out in the darkness.

Along the wall he crept with calculated stride,
Found sleeping guard whose coat he’d soon divide,
Then touched another form that gave him pause—
One more than Demetri had testified.

Thus, during this time, Fredrick scooted along, found the napping agent and removed his coat. While moving toward the end of the tunnel, Fredrick encountered another body against the wall and thought That’s funny, Demetri said only one was down.

The tunnel’s end showed hints of dawning light,
Where final guard stood watch in conscious might.
Above, the coming train announced its way
With whistle’s cry through shadows of the night.

Fredrick halted, noting that there was some ambient light at the end of the tunnel and that there would be no way to slip past the rear guard undetected. A whistle and a rumble indicated that the northbound train was arriving.

In borrowed coat, he spoke in Russian tongue:
“It’s Demetri,” the false assurance rung.
The guard’s brief pause proved fatal to his cause—
Swift pistol-strike, and past him Fredrick sprung.

Fredrick, wearing the borrowed KGB coat, walked calmly toward the rear guard, who tensed and pointed his weapon. Fredrick then whispered, in Russian, from several feet away “It’s me, Demetri“, and so the guard relaxed a bit, and it was in this split second that Fredrick leapt toward him and clunked him on the head with his pistol, took the guard’s shoes, and put them on.

In stolen shoes he scaled the platform’s height,
As northbound train prepared its hasty flight.
“I’m truly Rushin’ now,” he mused with pride,
While Oslo’s troubles faded into night.

He then ran up to the platform and jumped aboard the already departing train. I am really Rushin’ now.

Fate smiled upon our hero’s dining chance:
The duck he’d left behind resumed its dance
Upon the menu of his chosen car—
A feast to ease his northward-bound advance.

But through the window came a warning sight:
Five agents boarding in their vengeful flight.
Swift Fredrick rose and to the coupling ran,
Left half the train behind in comic plight.

It was Fredrick’s lucky day in that roast duck was on the dining car menu and so he ordered it. At the next station, Fredrick looked out the window and saw the five agents, minus one clunker and the two sleepers, running for the train and boarding the rear cars just as they were pulling away. Fredrick’s duck begin to take flight again as he ran to the end of the dining car and uncoupled the remainder of the train, pretty much leaving it sitting in the station. Good training.

To General Burkov word of failure flew,
Aboard his private train with pampered crew.
New orders given, wheels began to turn,
As Fredrick to another engine flew.

The KGBers then notified their top man, General Burkov, who happened to be in the vicinity aboard his own lavish private train, of their latest defeat (a misplaced clause?). Burkov gave new orders to his engineer. Fredrick jumped onto another train.

Through dining car and sleeper swift he passed,
Through baggage car his final sprint was cast,
His ToeQuest card convinced the engineer
To leave his post—the die was finally cast.

He ran back through the dining car, the sleeper cars, the baggage car, and onto the engine, showing his ToeQuest membership card and advising the engineer that he should leave the train for his own safety.

Behind him, Burkov’s train with thunderous might
Came roaring off the siding in their flight.
But Fredrick, wise to railways’ ordered ways,
Knew such close scheduling could not be right.

About then, General Burkov’s train came off a siding at high speed and onto Fredrick’s track, about three miles behind. Fredrick noted this oddity, thinking that trains are not scheduled this closely.

He stopped his train beside a mining track,
Threw switches there, then stepped a little back,
His dinner still in hand, to watch the show
As Burkov’s fate rolled down the ancient track.

Fred continued onward until he saw a signal for an upcoming siding, and stopped his train just beyond it, got out, and switched the main track onto the siding that led to an old abandoned mine, and just stood there to witness the action, carrying his roast duck. This should be good.

Too fast around the curve came Burkov’s pride,
Too late they saw the switch that would decide—
Their emergency brake proved futile there
As toward the mine shaft all were forced to ride.

Burkov came roaring much too fast around the curve, spotted the track switch too late, and tried an emergency stop, but his train kept going onto the siding and off toward the deserted mine shaft.

They leapt for life as eighteen stories deep
Their lavish train took its eternal sleep.
“No one does this!” raged Burkov from the ground,
“Send every agent forth, let no train keep!”

Burkov and friends jumped off at the last minute, just before the entire train plunged into the mine shaft and was swallowed into the eighteen story depths, never to be seen again. Shafted! Burkov cursed that “No one does this to me and lives! Send forth every agent and every train!”

But Fredrick, sampling duck with quiet grace,
Knew forest paths would give a safer space.
Ten miles to ninja shelter lay ahead—
A pleasant walk at peace’s gentle pace.

Fredrick hopped back on the engine, not planning to be on it much longer, for it wasn’t healthy and it wasn’t all that far to the ninja base, ten miles perhaps. He could take to the forest and walk. The roast duck was still with him and so he finally got to sample it. Ah, delicious.

A tunnel loomed ahead through forest shade;
“Not this again,” thought Fred, his choice was made—
He left the train and sought the woodland path,
Where giant bird showed where his route was laid.

There was a tunnel coming up ahead, and Fredrick thought, not this again, and stopped just before it, got everyone out and walked off by himself through the woods and toward the distant ninja base. A large bird pointed the way.

Then shadow stirred and took a living form:
“Good moves,” it spoke, “through all this recent storm.
Third degree now yours,” the Ninth declared,
“From Master Ninja, to tradition’s norm.”

In a while, a shadow appeared and came to life beside Fredrick saying, “Good moves, Fredrick-san. I give you third degree now. I am ninth degree ninja Grand Master.”
“Hello ninth.”

“Like wind I move, like water flow with grace.”
“I heard both functions at a different place,“
Fred quipped, while Ninja spoke of darkness arts:
“From nothing came I to this meeting space.”

“You not see me come; move like wind and go like water.”
“I heard you breaking wind and going water.”
“C’mon, that speech figure; beside, those awhile back. I wear black, come out of black between bush; appear as nothing.”

“In nothing,” Fred replied, “I hold degree.”
Then boom of explosion split earth and tree.
“Red engine meets our tunnel’s other end,“
The shadow smiled. “Now that was meant to be.”

“I am an expert on nothing.”
They heard an explosion. “We take care of light at other end of tunnel, some kind of speeding red KGB engine.”

“But where were you,” asked Fred, “when first I fought
Those eight who thought they had me surely caught?“
“I watched you learn—good training! Then I stayed,
You touched me once, remember? Second thought?“

“Thanks, but where was my protection from the eight KGB agents in the first place in the first tunnel?” asked Fred.

“Ah yes! The count seemed odd within the dark!”
“Just half of me was needed for that spark,
But splitting’s not my style!” the Ninja grinned.
Through forest depths they traced their woodland mark.

“Good training. But I there in second place in tunnel to protect you,” said the Ninja, “but you not need me.”
“You were there in the tunnel?“
“Yes, I there. You touch me once.”
“Oh yeah, thanks for being there; I thought I had an arithmetic problem. Okay, but was that it, just you?“
“That even too much, just need half of me, but I no like banana split so bring whole self! Ha-ha.”
“Good one, half and half.”
They walked on, for many, many miles.

“How goes it, Fred?” the shadow softly said.
“One foot before the other moves ahead.”
“Yes.” Then: “Sweet music comes to pierce the soul,
No preparation serves,” the Master led.

“How going, Fred?“
“I’m just putting one foot ahead of the other.”
“When cross zone, hear the sweetest saddest music ever. It go down deep, but also energize. No one can be ready for this.”
“I’m ready,” Fredrik spoke with certainty,
Until the notes flowed forth in purity—
Such sweetness mixed with sorrow touched his heart,
While tears revealed humanity’s deep plea.

“I’m ready.”
“OK, here come.”

“You spoke true words,” said Fred through misty eyes,
“No soul could ready be for such sweet cries.
They speak of human plight, yet give us strength
To aid the cause as far as power lies.”

Tears streamed from Fredrick’s eyes. “You’re right, there was no way to be ready for that; it reminds one about the plight of humanity, energizing one to aid the cause.”

Within the ninja base, tests did begin:
“What cola graces now this cup herein?“
“Not Coke nor Pepsi, but RC’s diet brew,“
Fred solved the riddle with a knowing grin.

“Now,” Fred, sir, “do some taste test: this Coke or Pepsi?“
“Neither; it is RC Diet Cola, from a can; nice try.”
“Ah, you have good taste. Now, what wine this be?“
“It’s a nonalcoholic sparkling grape beverage from Holland.”
“Ah, Fred, but what year.”
“This year“.

Through wine and duck the testing carried on,
Till taste itself became their wisdom’s dawn:
“Three classes of the buds,” Fred sagely spoke,
“Through vectors sweet and sour are withdrawn.”
“Now you taste this,” said Fredrick, as he pulled a piece of duck out of his pocket.
“Ah, yes, duck from Peking, south region. Very good. Now, what taste really consist of.”
“Well, although taste buds vary somewhat, there being three main classes, it all really comes down to the length of the vectors of the taste matrix of sweet, salt, bitter, and sour.”
“Yes, sir Fred. Fine taste. So, someone say something taste no good, then…“
“We don’t believe them, since their taste buds may be different from ours.”

“Some see the colors different than we see?“
“Yes, slight,” said Fred, “as different all may be.”
“That why some dress for darkness in the dark?“
“Why dress at all?” Fred matched his repartee.

“Some see different color too?“
“Yes, slightly.”
“That why some look like dress in dark?“
“We getting near outer zone of base, Fred; maybe see some magic stuff.”
“Really?“
“Yes, that could be, but you dress for the dark in the dark and go forth into the dark, so why wear anything?“
“Ah, good. Ha-ha.”

“What finest taste has crossed your knowing tongue?“
“Eternity’s sweet flavor,” Fred had sung.
“Ah, wise man you!” the ninja praised with joy,
While wisdom’s bells through both their laughter rung.

“Fred. What best taste ever?“
“The taste of eternity that I am tasting right now.”
“Ah, Fredrick, you wise man.”
“As wise as wise guy you.”

“Why not use pistol in the tunnel’s night?“
“No aim was true, the flash would give my plight.”
“If desperate?” “Then throw the cocked gun far,
Let chaos lead them from my path of flight.”
“More ha-ha. Why not shoot pistol in tunnel?“
“Well, there was nowhere to aim, plus they could have identified my position from the chamber barrel flash before I had a chance to shoot them all.”
“Good. What if they put light?“
“Then the better I know where they are to shoot them.”
“What if you get desperate or have to sneeze.”
“Then I cock the pistol and throw it where I am not, as I run away. Hopefully, it fires where it lands and draws their attention to it and away from me as I escape.”

“All this you planned within a minute’s span?“
“As traffic planner, that’s how thought began—
All directions must be weighed with care,
Through tunnel, sky, and every mortal plan.”

“All this plan in one minute make?“
“Yes, I am a traffic planner and must consider all directions, even up and down, and underground through tunnels.”

“Shall we sell tale to mystery’s DeMille?“
“I thought such tales from fancy’s simple will!”
“No, truth stands stranger far than fiction’s art,“
As wisdom’s laughter echoed through them still.

“Well, you mind if we sell story to detective mystery writer DeMille, make money?“
“Fine, go ahead, but I always thought they made these things up.”
“No, truth stranger than fiction.”

“How long’s a china man?” the ninja played.
“Yes, that’s his name,” Fred’s answer quickly made.
“No double positive exists!” came next.
“Yeah, right,” Fred smirked, their wit in masquerade.

“Any more tests?“
“How long is a china man.”
“Yes, that is his name.”
“No can fool you.”
“You hear of double negative, like ’didn’t see no duck’?“
“Yes, they cancel and a duck appears, for since I didn’t see everything but a duck, then I must have seen a duck, but even this is not for sure.”
“Yes, maybe you ate duck. Now, there no such thing as double positives!”
“Yeah, right.”

“What study calls you now?” “Just nothing’s way.”
“Ah, hardest state to hold from day to day—
For nothing needs a force to keep intact,
Then something fills the void we sought to slay.”

“Good one. What study you lately?“
“Nothing.”
“Ah, very hard state to maintain, so maybe not exist.”
“Really?“
“Yes, it would take a god or some force to keep nothing intact, but then not really nothing, for other stuff there. That my theory. It nothing really. Very little. A small point. A void to avoid. Not much. No big deal. Some zilch.”

“The Theory Of Nothing grows most long,
On ToeQuest’s thread where seekers throng.”
“True, Mr. Rick. First sleep, then rest, then void...”
“Welcome to NoQuest!” sealed their wisdom’s song.

“All right already; it’s not easy studying nothing, you know; but the Theory Of Nothing (TON) ToeQuest thread is one of the longest threads ever.”
“True, Mr. Rick. I like do nothing. But first I relax, then sleep, then rest up, then prepare do nothing, remove all thoughts, try not move…“

I ventured down to Venus’ clouded face,
Expecting something of celestial grace;
Instead found acid rain and crushing weight—
No goddess would choose this as dwelling place.

The sulfur fumes would make a skunk turn pale,
While temperatures would cook a devil’s tail;
Compared to this infernal pressure cooker,
Uranus’ methane breeze would be a gale.

Jupiter, the king of gaseous spheres,
Has storms that’ve raged for hundreds of years;
Its Great Red Spot, a tempest wild and free,
Could swallow Earth with all its hemispheres.

Saturn’s rings may look like heaven’s lace,
But fragments fierce fly through that lovely space;
A billion moonlets dance their deadly waltz—
No tourist trap I’d recommend with grace.

Those gas giants with their swirling bands
Have gathered moons like grains of cosmic sands;
Europa, Titan, Io, and the rest—
Their mooning around has gotten out of hand.

That leaves us Mars, the red world’s rusty plains,
Where ancient rivers left their dried remains;
Though Klingons now by Uranus patrol,
On Mars at least the gravity’s humane.

Perhaps we’d best stay home on Earth instead,
Where air is sweet and skies are overhead,
For though the Cosmos calls with siren song,
Most vacation spots out there would leave us dead.

The universe may sparkle, vast and bright,
With worlds that beckon through the endless night,
But Earth remains our perfect paradise—
The only planet that feels just right.