Why can I not whirl like the dervishes that pixelate my non-physical world? Why do I find myself haunting this cluttered old house in Miss Havisham’s yellowing lace, heavy with dust, convincing as it is oppressive?

Do I not trust myself to sit still for the muse unless I martyr myself to a prison furnished by ancestors? Yes. I would run if I could, and yes, at first it would be away, but it is never long before running away becomes running toward. Motion lubricates itself. Running for your life is running to your life. Life begets Life. To run is to be alive.

A shark must have water flowing through its gils. A mushroom must stay put. Each does what it is for, and the mushroom, in his mind and mycelium is everywhere, roots of magic reaching all the way to the sea, befriending moss, becoming water, bequeathing its intelligence to a great ghostly squid, who looms in the dim—Miss Havisham again – knowing nothing of our world of time and tin and tinsel, and none the worse for it, giant eyes blind to our pity. She will avoid the shark as long as she can, and then she will become him, so the mushroom can know what it is to swim.