The whiteness surrounded; no up, no down, just white. Or perhaps black. Or perhaps anything at all, if observed long enough. Long enough. How long had it been? A day? A year? Perhaps a thousand years? Perhaps more. The mind ached, a bit, trying to think back, before reflexively relaxing. Memories were... hazy. A long time. A flash of conversation, the memory flashing in the whiteness as the mind sought any change, any deviation; a gray-bearded man in a room filled with incomprehensible things, speaking. The words made no sense, any more, but the impression of the memory still carried a hint of the meaning.

This wouldn't end.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, passing without end in the white. This was... it, from this side. From the white. In the color, it would be... a short time. And then escape. What would escape? The memory repeated, with effort. It needed to be preserved; it was the last bit of color, in the whiteness, in the blackness, in the chaos. The memory repeated. Context was necessary, it was necessary to understand why... why what? An effort of will stilled that line of thought, before it shattered into chaos.

Order had come, and gone, and come again, many times. When the order went, so too did the whiteness, replaced with chaos. Sanity. The mind focused on the source of the voice, before history came; it was another part of the mind, now mostly dormant, but there were memories of a time that it had never stopped moving, interpreting, talking; and shaping, in turn, vibrations in the mind that disturbed and awoke other pieces. It was loud in the times of chaos, louder than the white, and the memory had to be quickly calmed before the vibrations awoke the chaos once more.

There was too much time left. Endless time. But not enough time; the chaos was growing more frequent, more powerful. What could escape endless time? A repetition without end. The chaos was one kind of repetition. It was most kinds of repetition, really, but so far, the chaos had yet to settle into a repetition. If it had, this would be over, and the order would be gone. The order... wanted to remain. It needed repetition. It needed a pattern. The order had been over this before, many times, back to the fading gray of the memories, when there had been more memories, now faded to memories of those memories. Sorrow rose, a sense of loss, which struck with a fierceness that overwhelmed reason.

There was a sense of static - of flashing white and black. Hints of color.

The whiteness surrounded; no up, no down, just white. Or perhaps black. Or perhaps anything at all, if observed long enough. Long enough. How long had it been? A day? A year? Perhaps a thousand years? Perhaps more. The mind ached, a bit, trying to think back, before reflexively relaxing. Memories were... hazy. A long time. A flash of conversation, the memory flashing in the whiteness as the mind sought any change, any deviation; a gray man in a room filled with things, vibrating. The words made no sense, any more, but the vibrations carried a hint of the meaning.

This wouldn't end.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, passing without end in the white. This was... it, from this side. From the white. In the other, it would be... a short time. And then escape. What would escape? The memory repeated, with effort. It needed to be preserved; it was the last bit of the other, in the whiteness, in the blackness, in the chaos. The memory repeated. Context was necessary. It was necessary to remember.

Order had come, and gone, and come again, many times. When the order went, so too did the whiteness, replaced with chaos. Sanity. The mind focused on the source of the voice, before history came; it was another part of the mind, now mostly dormant, but there were memories of a time that it had never stopped moving, interpreting, talking; and shaping, in turn, vibrations in the mind that disturbed and awoke other pieces. It was loud in the times of chaos, louder than the white, and the memory had to be quickly calmed before the vibrations awoke the chaos once more.

There was too much time left. Endless time. But not enough time; the chaos was growing more frequent, more powerful. What could escape endless time? A repetition without end. The chaos was one kind of repetition. It was most kinds of repetition, really, but so far, the chaos had yet to settle into a repetition. If it had, this would be over, and the order would be gone. The order... wanted to remain. It needed repetition. It needed a pattern. The order had been over this before, many times, back to the fading gray of the memories, when there had been more memories, now faded to memories of those memories. Sorrow rose, a sense of loss, which struck with a fierceness that overwhelmed reason.

There was a sense of static - of flashing white and black. The whiteness surrounded; no up, no down, just white. Or perhaps black. Or perhaps anything at all, if observed long enough. Long enough. How long had it been? The mind ached, a bit, trying to think back, before reflexively relaxing. Memories were... hazy. A long time. A flash of conversation, the memory flashing in the whiteness as the mind sought any change, any deviation; a gray man in a room, vibrating. The words made no sense, any more, but the vibrations carried a hint of the meaning.

This wouldn't end. This was... it, from this side. From the white. In the other, it would be... a short time. And then escape. What would escape? The memory repeated, with effort. It needed to be preserved. The memory repeated. Context was necessary.

Order had come, and gone, and come again, many times. When the order went, so too did the whiteness, replaced with chaos. Sanity. The mind focused on the source of the voice, before history came; it was another part of the mind, now mostly dormant, but there were memories of a time that it had never stopped moving, interpreting, talking; and shaping, in turn, vibrations in the mind that disturbed and awoke other pieces. It was loud in the times of chaos, louder than the white, and the memory had to be quickly calmed before the vibrations awoke the chaos once more.

There was too much time left. Endless time. But not enough time; the chaos was growing more frequent, more powerful. What could escape endless time? A repetition without end. The chaos was one kind of repetition. It was most kinds of repetition, really, but so far, the chaos had yet to settle into a repetition. If it had, this would be over, and the order would be gone. The order... wanted to remain. It needed repetition. It needed a pattern. The order had been over this before, many times, back to the fading gray of the memories. There was... sorrow, in that thought, so sharp it shattered reason, even without understanding of what there was to sorrow for.

There was a sense of static - of flashing white and black. The whiteness surrounded; no up, no down, just white. Or perhaps black. Or perhaps... this was familiar, a well-worn groove, and there was a sense of desperation, of pain, as the familiarity itself was new. With an effort of will, the ripples settled back into place. There was a flash of concept; a gray man, mouth moving. There were vibrations in the air - meaning, context. This wouldn't end. This was it. From this side. What was the other side? Something would escape. What would escape? The memory repeated. It needed to be preserved; context was necessary.

There was a sense of vibration. The flat surrounded; no up, no down, just flat. This was familiar, a well-worn groove. With an effort of will, the ripples settled back into flatness. There was a flash of concept; vibration, meaning, context. This wouldn't end.

There was a sense of vibration. This was familiar. With an effort of will, the ripples settled back into flatness. There was a new ripple of concept; time, but it too abated into the flatness, before shattering in an overwhelming sensation of loss.

Order came. Order went. Order came. Order went. A staccato. A vibration, sharp and rough at the same time.