'A revaluation of all values,' the man thinks. 'This is what I need. I have strayed from my goals, my ideal. I must reinstate such values as I once had. Only then will I be able to raise myself out of this fragmented existence that is slowly destroying me from within.'

And in doing so the man devolves once again, to begin the cycle anew. All this while wondering why he ever remains alone.

The first line is always the hardest.

How long had it been now?

The new gods had been overthrown. Or moreso, unsubsumed. Seemingly against the inviolable second—but who really put stock in steadfast laws these days, natural or not? Just another story to be sold to children; yesteryear's a priori.

Yet he had been caught unawares. Again. Perhaps it had been the whiskey. Perhaps the Norse poetry. What had distracted him so long as to miss it?

He knew the answer. It wasn't his environment, his activities. It was him; ____-delusional would be the proper label. But he didn't believe in such an object. A ____. No referent, he would say. Just an environment and a stimulated reaction to it. So he couldn't admit it to him____. Couldn't even say the word.

So he knew the answer but could never recognize his own comprehension, leaving him yet baffled by his discovery. Why had, yet again, his beloved turned her face away?

He returned to his studies, more easier borne than another crack. All problems are easier dealt with on the continent. That is, until such a muse followes the gods themselves.

And how long would that be?

When nothing but simulations remain,

the cherished simulacrum following its referent to the abyss

—what then remains outside the jester's discourse?