“The oldest words were written as song. And they shattered the universe into existence. They were written by my mother on parchment woven from probability and sung with a voice that cracked her womb, and from it burst forth Being. Resplendent and glorious, it burst within itself and grew at enormous speed. Being was even more beautiful than my mother, so it devoured her, consuming her utterly in eternal flame.
“But within mother lay still sleeping Being’s four siblings. My sisters–That Which Was and That Which Ought–and me–That Which Became–entered the very gut of Being. While our mother was consumed, we grew and ourselves came into Being. And so did Being make for itself a beginning and and an inevitable end.
“I remember this, when I think on it a while. But sometimes, sitting here on a leather chair, writing on a polished wooden desk, and feeling the sweat beading on my shell of flesh, I wonder whether it really happened, or whether am I merely mad.”
“Trick! I made you breakfast. It’s eggs with syrup!” yelled Andy from the kitchen.
William, who Andy called Trick, sighed and closed his journal and went into the dining room to eat.