There it stays, neither affixed nor rooted but floating against the pull of gravity. Unpredictable yet constrained like all possibilities. A speck of dust, the detritus of time, all remenants of life. Fathomless yet invisible, except in the occasional beams of morning light, both rising and falling. These are the truths of history, not in words but in substance. A consciousness adrift and consumed and expelled. The ceaseless story.