He’d heard, with some alarm, of the narrow escapes of his fellow ToeQuestors and was almost worried. Michael was well aware that his nearly real name and picture appeared on his every post; the picture was small but the name could be deduced, and, so, the new MI8 group had done so, locating his residence; however, Michael awaited them, in his lounge chair, having a trick up his sleeve that he couldn’t wait to pull on them.
So, there he was posting away to 100 different threads when they arrived and surrounded him on 20 sides.

“Please come with us peacefully,” they requested. “There is no escape; we have guards on all the EXITS (WAY OUT in UK dialect) and on all the ENTRANCES (WAY IN).”
Michael smiled and simply said “I am noumena,” as he turned into pure energy, a state that could not be maintained for more than a few seconds, but time enough for him to zoom away at near the speed of light. He’d been practicing this, and it was always quite exhilarating, although he couldn’t sense as well during it. It had a refractory time of a few days, whereupon he could perform it again just by thinking ‘energize’.

Around the globe fourteen times did he speed,
Through mountain, tree, and tower with spirit freed,
Till in the Queen’s own chamber did he land -
A royal fright from his ethereal deed!

Through space he streaked, a beam of living light,
Round Earth fourteen times in his quantum flight,
Till in the Queen’s own chamber did he pause -
Her Majesty awoke in quite a fright!

Anyway, he disappeared from right in front of their eyes and took off, easily passing through buildings, trees, and mountains, and going around the world about 14 times before he materialized, of all places, next to the Queen of England in her bed at 1 AM.

The Palace guards stood stoic at their post,
As Michael, glowing like a radiant ghost,
Walked down and poured his tea with gentle grace -
Of all his tricks, this one amused him most.

Down palace stairs with mystic glow he strode,
Poured royal tea, as if ’twere his abode,
While guards stood fast, their faces carved in stone,
Though mirth did threaten their prescribed code.

She shrieked, and he calmly bowed and walked down the stairs, poured a cup of tea, and went out the front door, almost making the Buckingham Palace guards smile, for he had a certain glow, but they weren’t allowed to show any emotion.

Now mortal-bound for days, he took his leave,
His TR-3 through winding roads did weave,
Till Fortune’s wheel brought forth a humble flat -
Such Earthly bonds that even heroes grieve!
Now bound in mortal form for days to come,
To ninja wisdom’s call he must succumb,
Yet in his mind, those moments pure remain,
When with Creation’s pulse his heart beat drum.

For the next few days, he would be a merely mortal phenom and would have to be on his toes to be taller and see beyond the pale to note any tails of those hound-dogging him for the TOE or the TOT (Theory of Thing). Meanwhile, he replayed in his mind his energizing travels as a noumena, when he was one with all that is and was, although he could still appreciate the usefulness of the normal sensing form of life incarnate.

Michael decided to stay out of sight by taking a much earned vacation weekend from helping others cope, during the few days that he had before he was due at the ninja base, and so he drove his TR-3 towards the hills and beyond for one last romp. He turned his engine loose, roaring onto the open road. He was doing at least 5 KPH over the speed limit, weaving gracefully around the slower moving cars.

Towards hills and vales his TR-3 did race,
Five units past the law’s decreed swift pace,
When Fortune’s wheel did turn with mocking spin -
His chariot protested with ill grace.

“O cursèd fate!” the wanderer did cry,
As by the road his pristine suit awry,
He wrestled with the wheel of bitter chance,
When lo! An angel’s presence caught his eye.

Upon the road, a vision pure and bright,
Like dawn’s first ray that pierces through the night,
Left Michael standing, speechless, tire in hand,
His heart suspended in its swift delight.

While changing tires beside the dusty way,
His pristine suit now smudged in disarray,
A vision bright appeared upon the road -
As Heaven’s answer to his heart that day.

His car was running rough for some reason: bumpity, bumpity, bump. “Damn!” A flat tire. It was always something like that with this rolling junk pile that was once a sports car. Michael made a vow to replace his TR-3 with a Porsche, while preparing to fix the flat tire by the side of the narrow road in his spotless white sport suit.

Michael took the spare tire out of the trunk, carefully trying not to let it touch his pristine white leisure suit as he juggled it over to the wheel. He jacked up the car and removed the flat tire. “Dang nab it!” he swore at his car when he got a smudge on his pants from the old tire. It was then that he saw her driving by, a bright vision from Heaven come to answer his dreams. He could hardly believe what he saw.

A yellow streak of Ferrari’s pride,
At speeds that made the wind’s force multiplied,
Swept past our hero on his roadside pause,
While dust clouds dimmed his garments’ former pride.

She was driving a yellow Testarossa, breaking the speed limit and hitting at least 125 MPH, almost blowing him off the shoulder of the road. “Darn!” Now his white suit had become a dusty gray. He got a good look at her, though, since she had her top down.

Her trailing scarf danced like a banner bright,
Her plate read “TRISH” - he knew at first sight:
“SHE’S THE ONE!” he cried with joy complete,
Till Theory’s quest fled from his mind’s delight.

Her hair and scarf trailed out behind her as she sped away along the hilly road. Her license plate just read “TRISH“. “She’s the one,” he said quietly to himself, then more loudly, “That’s her! Forget Everything for a while,” then yelling it out in celebration, “SHE’S THE ONE! THAT’S THE WOMAN FOR ME!” He could hardly contain himself, and he even stopped thinking about the Theory of Thing for a while.

(Hey, how come Michael gets a girl in his story when no one else did? Well, just because; plus we can’t always leave half the world out.)
With haste he gave pursuit along the way,
His humble TR-3 in smoky spray,
Could scarce achieve the mountain road’s demands,
While she, swift goddess, would not deign to stay.

He quickly twisted the lug nuts back on the wheel, jumped into his ‘car’ and raced after her, but, unfortunately, his old TR-3 could do only 85 MPH or so on the switch back upgrades. A bit of smoke poured from his engine, suggesting that he was burning oil and would never catch her.

But Fate, that fickle mistress of our days,
Led both their paths to cross in fortune’s maze,
Where fast food’s temple stood beside the road,
And there she stood within his wondering gaze.

Then he got lucky, for he spotted her car parked outside a fast food restaurant. That’s her type of food, he thought, he having once eaten slow food: escargot. As he drove into the parking lot, she was already walking out with a hamburger in her hand.

“Fair Trish,” spoke Michael, bold in love’s command,
“I seek your heart, your style so grand!”
She smiled and offered challenge in reply:
“Keep pace with me - then you may win my hand!”

He always thought fast and so he walked right up to her and spoke directly, as usual, “Trish, my name is Michael and I’m on my way up in the world of Thing. I am falling in love with you and your style, and so I would like to take you out tonight and get to know you very well.”
She answered spontaneously, too: “OK, Michael, I’ll make a deal with you, one that we’ll both enjoy. If you can keep up with me throughout the day, then you can have me tonight. And get that suit cleaned!”

With french fries gifted from her fleeing form,
He watched her car kick dust in swirling storm,
His suit now darker than the evening’s shade -
Yet hope burned bright where passion’s flames were born.

She handed him the remains of her french fries and quickly roared off in her new Testarossa, its wheels spinning and spitting even more dirt onto Michael, turning his now gray suit to a dark brown color.
Her antics only convinced him all that more that she was the girl for him; for she seemed rich, daring, confident, attractive, sexy, and so full of energy.

What charms she held! What grace in every part!
Rich, daring, wise; she pierced straight through his heart,
Her eyes that spoke of mysteries untold,
Her presence made his very soul restart.

Plus she had a ready wit and was good-looking, too. She had long hair, a body that was alive, and erotic, exotic features. Her eyes had looked straight into him! She was more than fine; she just oozed with charm, personality, and sex appeal.

He stood transfixed where empty air remained,
While far below, her car’s wild song proclaimed:
“Wild and free!” The anthem of her soul,
As with a wave, his frozen spirit claimed.

He stood there, dazed for a moment, still talking to the air that she’d just vacated.
Already he could see her car speeding along the road below, her radio music blaring some music that sang … wild and free, that’s what I want to be! She looked up and gave him a wave, urging him on, and this shook him out of his trance. He even managed to wave back, although he felt like a frozen statue and could hardly lift his arm.

Unknown to him, eighteen blue cars drew near,
The MI8 in pursuit severe,
While Michael raced his chariot with might,
Down winding paths where danger lurked so clear.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Michael, 18 blue MI8 sedans had located him and were hot on his trail, although still some miles back. Michael ran to his car and raced down the hillside after her, going faster and ever faster, even running off onto the shoulder several times, and then almost going off the side of the road.

Through curves that tested steel and spirit’s nerve,
Each downshift prayer that he might yet preserve
His chase of love along the mountain’s spine,
While ancient TR-3 fought each steep swerve.

The curves were real tricky and so he had to assist the car’s braking by downshifting into second gear, sometimes even into first. He couldn’t keep up with her, of course, but at least he could still see her now and then down the other side He was pushing his car to its limit and loving every minute of it.

The thrill of chase sang through his racing blood,
As natural opiates released their flood,
Past trucks he darted, courting death’s embrace,
While wisdom whispered: “Tempt not fate’s dark flood!”

His heart beat time to passion’s wild command,
As mountain roads stretched through the misty land,
Each glimpse of yellow streak that caught his eye
Drew him toward destiny’s appointed hand.

Oh, the thrill of it! And for good reason, too: love. This was not just simple speeding, it was speeding for a purpose, speeding as if his life depended on it, or at least his love life. Michael immediately became enamored of the exhilaration of the chase, as the stress and excitement caused adrenaline and natural opiates to be loosened in his overworked ToeQuesting brain. He took a chance, passing a slow moving truck in the no-passing lane, and was just barely able to tuck back in time. He told himself: Don’t do that again!

As death he courted on the winding way,
Past loves appeared like ghosts of yesterday,
“Women are cars,” his racing mind declared,
“And Trish, a racer living for today!”

As he courted death, his love lives flashed before him. Women were like cars, he thought. Trish, of course, was a race car, revving her engine to the limit, taking every turn to the edge, and living every moment as if it were her last.

While station wagons plod with cautious care,
Their drivers bound to duties everywhere,
His Trish lived free upon the razor’s edge,
Her spirit soaring through the mountain air.

Others, on the other hand, were more like station wagons: stable, sturdy, reasonable, sensible, and dependable, but unexciting, and, thus he thought, wastefully frittering their lives away by their attendance to the most mundane details of nothing that much mattered.

His trusty car, though valiant in its tries,
Could scarce keep pace where passion’s challenge lies,
Till fortune smiled - she turned toward wooded vale,
A meadow’s trap where love might claim its prize.

Michael was falling behind, although doing the best that he could in his unsporty car, but an old jalopy compared to hers. Luckily, he saw her turn off into a small wooded valley between two hilly ridges. Now he had her, he thought; now there was no escape possible, for it was just a little dirt road trailing off into a meadow and a farm. Only a few more moments and they’d be together in sensual bliss.

His phone then rang with ninja’s coded speech:
“What doing? Danger near with strangers’ reach!”
“Wrong number, friend,” was Michael’s swift reply,
His mind fixed firm on love within his reach.

Michael’s cell phone rang, and a worried ninja informed him that he was being pursued and that he should ditch the car and take cover: “What doing? Stranger dangers; be angered.”
Michael replied, “Sorry, you have the wrong number.”

But what strange sounds now filled the meadow fair?
What rainbow colors danced upon the air?
Hot air balloons, their tethers soon to break,
Were waiting winged to rise without a care!

As he neared the meadow he heard some great whooshing sounds that were familiar but couldn’t quite be placed. Rainbow colors could be seen through the trees. What was all this? And then he understood. Of course! Hot air balloons! The balloons were ready for launch, their baskets peopled, their ropes even now being untied from the stakes. This was not so good news. Soon the sky would fill with all these balloons and he’d never find her! He was in a frenzy!

His frenzied heart found calm in searching glance,
He spied her chariot in quick advance,
Beside a crimson-yellow floating sphere,
Where fate prepared its next step in love’s dance.

He cleared his mind, and calmly but quickly looked for her car; ah, there it was, next to a balloon that was colored bright red and yellow.

“Make haste, dear Michael!” came her siren call,
As floating craft began its upward crawl,
“To Emerald City, come with me!” she cried,
While ropes dragged past him, teasing with their thrall.

“Hurry up, Michael” she said, as her balloon began to lift off, its ropes still dragging on the ground past him. “Come with me to the Emerald City!” Just then the basket left the ground. Michael grabbed onto the rope and ran with it for awhile, thinking crazily that he could somehow climb up it.

Though heights did strike his heart with mortal dread,
Love conquered fear as ancient wisdom said,
He clutched the rope that lifted him aloft,
While ground below grew distant as he sped.

There was only one problem: he was afraid of heights!

Nevertheless, love conquered fear and so he held on to the rope as it gently lifted him off of the ground.pastedGraphic_2.pngpastedGraphic_3.pngpastedGraphic_4.pngpastedGraphic_5.png
But panic seized his soul in fickle grip,
As higher rose his unintended trip,
He spied soft hay that promised gentle fall,
And let his fingers from the lifeline slip.

He soon had second thoughts, however, and panicked, realizing that he was almost getting too high to let go.

Alas! The fates that govern mortal lands
Had other plans for suitors’ bold demands,
For not in haystack did our hero land,
But midst the pigs where darkest muck expands!

He looked down and saw a barnyard filled with soft hay, and so, giving up the stunt as hopeless, let go of the rope and fell a short and harmless distance to the ground, but missed the hay, landing smack in the middle of the pigs’ feeding area.

His suit once white as winter’s purest snow,
Now blacker than the void where no stars glow,
Stood testament to love’s demanding quest,
And depths to which a seeker’s heart might go.

His white suit was now as black as coal in the nothing of a void at night with no moon.

From heights above, she called with merry jest,
“Take heart!” and flung her keys at his behest,
“Find me where’er the winds may guide my way!
In Kansas now no more, pursue your quest!”

Trish looked down and was much amused at his discomfort, but was also relieved to see that he was OK. “Don’t give up, young chap!” she yelled down to him. “Here are my car keys,” she said, as she threw her set of keys down to him. “Come and find me wherever I land. Follow me. You’re not in Kansas anymore, my good man!”

Midst curious pigs that snuffled at his plight,
He pondered if love’s chase brought such delight,
Till from his trunk fresh garments did appear,
To clothe anew this mud-bespattered knight.

Michael was sitting in the muck, surrounded by the curious living pork chops, bacons, and hams, and wondering if this so-called adventure of love business was really worth it all. A pig ambled over to investigate, rubbing its nose over him, perhaps thinking that Michael was some new form of food. Michael pulled himself up, picked up the car keys, and then changed into his sports clothes, which he had luckily kept in the trunk of his car.

Her chariot of gold now his to steer,
Each button, switch, and dial crystal clear,
When overhead her craft did sail once more,
And logic fled before his passion’s peer.

He walked over to her beautiful Testarossa and sat in it, admiring it, much like he had often done in the new car showrooms, twiddling with this and every knob, trying out every button. He thought of gaining safety in the ninja base that had to be nearby, but Trish presently sailed overhead and thereby erased all logical thinking. Satisfied with knowing where every switch was in the car, Michael drove off, and tried to keep Trish’s balloon in sight, but soon lost it, then found it, then lost it again among the ridges.

Through winding roads his quest did now pursue,
As compass guided where her balloon flew,
Now seen, now lost among the ridges high,
While updrafts bore her swift beyond his view.

Not straight the path that led to love’s domain,
For roads care not for heart’s directest gain,
Yet Michael tracked her course with steadfast will,
As mountain winds sang their sweet refrain.

She was moving fast on the updrafts. However, at each sighting, he took note of her general direction, referring to the car compass, and was generally able to make progress toward her, though by no means directly, because there was not always a road available in the direction that he needed to go.

At one with steel and power now he flew,
This chariot of dreams proved swift and true,
While lesser cars made way with cautious haste,
As wealth’s mere semblance parted seas of blue.

Now this is a car, he thought, as he began to put it through its paces. Why, I feel like I am a part of it, he marveled, as it held the corners due to its low center of gravity and its wide stable body. The greatest part of driving it was seeing the other cars on the road give way to him, all figuring him to be ultra rich and of course not wanting to take a chance of bumping him and scratching a $200,000 car. So this is what it feels like to be a millionaire!

“Speed faster!” ninja voices urged by phone,
But Michael brushed such warnings with a groan,
More pressing were the score of cars behind,
That followed him through valleys not alone.

“Faster, MK,” said another ninja cell phone caller.
“Stop bothering me. I don’t want to buy a new condo!”
However, Michael did heartily take of note the now 24 sedans following him, although they were a ways back, and put the pedal through the heavy metal of the radio.

Through miles he tracked her floating silhouette,
His heart a compass that could not forget,
Till tunnel’s darkness swallowed up his path,
And panic’s moment claimed its brief regret.

He drove and drove and drove some more and soon passed the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, where he was still supposed to practice some things; however, he had noted six dust trails or devils following him many miles behind.

Then Nobody’s dark warning touched his mind:
A future glimpse of mankind’s fate entwined
With warming globe—a wrong turn taken when
Through cosmic waves his path had been defined.

Prof remembered that Nobody, in a private message to all, had hinted at some dark and very probable futures for the Earth that he’d observed when taking a wrong turn in time during the CMBR trip, one of them being the fate of Earth from global warming.

Yet hope still flickered in this somber tale:
The ToeQuestors’ knowledge might prevail,
If wisdom’s race against the coming doom
Could grant them time to pierce the future’s veil.

However, all was not lost, for the goodhearted ToeQuestors could perhaps use their knowledge of the newly discovered TOE to alter the dim future, somehow, if only they could learn all the nuances quick enough over the coming years, ahead of the doom.

In visions dark with biblical disguise,
Profpat beheld what future might arise;
The Theory’s truth, if properly refined,
Could lift mankind toward wonder-gilded skies.

Profpat remembered watching the video of a possible dark future that was couched in biblical allegory for concealment of its revelations. Furthermore, the knowledge of the real TOE, if refined and understood well enough, could lead to amazing wonders that could never have even been imagined in this age, all good things, of course.

But governments with conquest in their hearts
Must never grasp these transcendental arts;
For naturalists would see such glory bright,
Beyond mere beauty nature now imparts.

Surely, it could not be trusted to governments with visions of dominance by conquest over Toequest. The naturalist, for instance, would be able to absorb with awestruck reverence scenes of overpowering sublimity far beyond the simple prettiness on offer now.

Musicians too would hear celestial strains,
Surpassing all that mortal ear contains;
The mystics’ spheres would seem as children’s toys
Compared to these supreme harmonic reigns.

A musician would be able to hear and play music more exhilarating and heartfelt than anyone had ever dreamed of. The celestial music of the spheres heard by the mystics would become as a child’s toy flute in comparison to this grand and ultimate symphony.

And lovers would discover pleasures new,
Beyond what flesh had ever wandered through;
By thought alone such ecstasy would bloom,
Pure joy untainted, guiltless through and through.
The sensualist would discover that what had passed for deep and passionate sex had been merely a pleasant prelude. Erotic pleasure of an intensity that flesh had never known would become enjoyable without guilt, even by thought alone.

The painter’s eye would capture realms divine,
In holographic splendor, line by line;
While scientists with minds expanded vast
Would pierce the veils where mysteries combine.

A painter or patron of the visual arts would be able to behold representative vision in a holographic reality of indescribable glory and completeness.
Scientists would be able to apply a googolplex of neurons to their thought experiments, rivaling Einstein’s fortunate ‘ah-ha’ moments, all of the time, to reveal much of what was unknown between heaven and Earth.

Old conflicts born of selfish, stubborn ways
Would yield to reason’s clear, enlightened rays;
As medicine would ease the mind’s dark pains,
And wars would fade like mist in morning haze.

Arguments by people insisting on their own selfish ways would melt into a new sense of increased reasoning, just as bad and aversive emotions would be greatly lessened by new and safer medical miracles. Wars would become much reduced, and humanity at large could finally progress beyond its everyday suffering.

Even mundane losses would decrease their hold —
Those keys and glasses lost in days of old
Would cease their vanishing along time’s tracks,
As human suffering’s tide began to fold.

People would actually remember their car keys and glasses that had often and usually piled up at the vanishing point of the ‘lost and found’, which was at the end of the converging railroad tracks.

Yet through all ages, glimpses rare and bright
Had blessed some souls with momentary light;
Like candles flickering in eternal dark,
Then fading swift into oblivion’s night.

Of course, throughout the ages there had always been those rare and mystical moments as described above, for some enlightened and peaceful souls or those in love, but they were just fleeting glimpses of a rare light that lit their minds for a while as a flickering candle, when all one’s thoughts perfectly conjuncted, but then, as always, they soon dispersing and moving on into the oblivion of forgotten dreams.

But would the sickness of our present age,
The power-drunk rulers on their mortal stage,
Destroy the noble ToeQuest’s sacred aim?
This thought did all their worried hearts engage.

Or… would the contagion of the sickness, immaturity, and ignorance of the present human condition of those in power thwart the best efforts of the noble ToeQuestors…

Thus did Profpat and comrades brave and true,
Beyond mere fantasy of comic view,
Unite in quest for noumenal divine —
Upon their strength fate’s tapestry now grew.

All of the preceding is why Profpat and the others escaping to safety had found a renewed vigor and strength and were now going way beyond the comic Fantastic Four to form a phenomenal team of noumena seekers, consisting of many talented and diverse individuals that the fate of the universe now depended on.

Through mountain roads with nitro’s urgent might,
Profpat sped upward toward the snow-crowned height;
While warnings crackled through the static’s veil:
“Make haste! The Feds approach! Take wing in flight!”

So, Profpat had driven across the plains through the badlands was now speeding up the Rocky Mountain road, having turned on his nitro tanks. He had just received an update: “Go faster, six more Feds and Fed-exes coming up other side of mountain; you need reach peak before them. Hurry, scurry, flurry; make haste; expedite. Click.”

With glider spread like eagle’s wings of steel,
He soared above where mortals often kneel;
Though tranq-darts traced their rainbow through the air,
Their arcs fell short, their threat could never seal.

Profpat turned on more afterburners, and finally reached the mountain’s peak, unloaded his hang glider, and took off above the clouds. He dipsy-doodled at first but soon got the hang of the glider. This is marvelous, he thought, it feels as if the wings are an extension of my self; I am a phoenix on eagle’s wings.
Some Feds fired at him from quite a distance with their high powered tranquilizer rifles, but the darts merely formed gravity’s rainbow.

For miles he sailed past Rocky Mountain’s breast,
Each thermal draft a gift, each touch impressed;
The Earth below seemed small, its conflicts dim
As ant-wars viewed from heights of eagle’s nest.

The hang glider responded to Pat’s slightest touch and he became acclimated to it. Passing hundreds of miles past the Rockies and not really losing much altitude, he learned to sense the updrafts or spot dirt fields from which the heat would be rising. Prof saw the Earth a bit differently now, being a skynaut, its petty squabbles now seen to be as meaningless as ants fighting over a crumb.

A cigarette, a coffee’s steaming share,
While drifting through the mountain-scented air;
The world beneath lay open like a shell,
Its vastness now his playground, free and fair.

Another, smaller, mountain range gave him some needed lift, and thus he sailed on, lit a cigarette, and had a sip of coffee. The world was opened as an oyster to him, and was also now his ashtray and his outhouse.

In San Francisco’s towers gleaming bright,
He landed midst the accountants’ domain of might;
To speak of GAAP and ledgers ancient lore,
Where debits dance with credits through the night.
Profpat landed in San Francisco and began his lecture on ‘Being Accountable’, in some colossal skyscraper’s conference room whose grandeur befitted the importance of Accounting, for where would the world be without transactions, the accounting of which was the very ‘language of business’.

But lecture’s dullness proved a secret boon,
As Fed-Ups charged like hares beneath the moon;
Sharp pencils flew like arrows through the air,
Some foes erased by graphite’s mystic rune.

The lecture was entitled: ‘The GAAP Between the CPA and the CGA in Using the IFRS’.
“The basic accounting principles of the double-entry debit-credit system have not changed since the days of ancient Greece and Rome, in that we must stay up all night until they balance, that is, until Enron dropped out of the Big Five that we now call the Big Four…”
Profpat threw very sharp pencils at them, greatly slowing them down, accidentally erasing a few of them, along with some quarks, income tacks, big accounts, and some green eyeshades, and then disappeared behind the curtain, and ran up the stairs toward the skyscraper’s roof, not even stopping for a smoke or at a pencil sharpener.
The lecture was about to go on, but it was so boring that Austin’s story allows the waiting Fed-Ups to immediately rush toward the podium.

Up spiral stairs our hero swiftly flew,
While down below the Feds’ confusion grew;
Their lawyer mocked: “These stairs that downward wind,
Do they not also climb to heaven’s blue?“

The Feds ran down the stairs, and found no one but their lawyer, who said, “You fools. These stairs that go down; do they not also go up?” So, he reversed his charges and sent them up, but a bit too late, for Profpat was already winging away, like a duck; no, wait, ducks were in Fredrick’s story.

Like fowl upon the wind he soared away,
While black sedans turned choppers joined the fray;
A message whispered of a stealth ship’s aid
Beyond the borders where the waters lay.

He winged away like a fowl bird, air-foiling the Federals yet again. The Feds called in six black FBI sedan helicopters (see, Profpat, maybe you should have bought one) to follow him, as he received another message: “Stealth black ninja aircraft carrier waiting for you beyond US boundary in international waters.”

Through clouds he dove with open mouth to drink,
Like mouse before the feline’s watchful blink;
Till fog consumed the chase like melting cheese,
And hunters lost their quarry’s trail to think.

Profpat flapped his seemingly real and movable organs for flying (wings) and rose and dove in rises and dives to outwit the helicopters and lose them for a while as he flew through a cloud with his mouth open to get a drink of the refreshing water droplets. It was cat and mouse for a while until the cheese disappeared in the fog.

The Golden Gate lent thermals to his flight,
As twilight faded into starless night;
But as the shore breeze died in evening’s shroud,
His wings began to sink from heaven’s height.

He then used the heat rising off the Golden Gate Bridge to fly on through the end of twilight, intending to use the darkness for cover beyond the city’s lights; however, this ending of dusk also meant that the ocean was no longer trading brisk breezes with the shore and that he would begin to lose altitude.

“O Death!” he cried, “Where lies thy victory?
While ebon wings enfold and set me free,
Where is thy sting?” as thirty feet per breath
He dropped toward the dark, eternal sea.

Death! where is thy Victory?
To triumph whilst I die,
To triumph whilst thine ebon wing
Enfolds my shuddering soul.
Death! where is thy sting?
(Shelley)

Sure enough, he began dropping 30 feet a second over the ocean and still had 25 miles to go…

All life’s accounts flashed past his reddened gaze—
The taught, the sought, the fought of mortal days;
Like stone he dropped, then spread his wings to soar,
The maddest scholar lost in ocean’s haze.

This is it; I’m an overdue account, pound foolish, though penny wise, but overdrawn. At least they didn’t get the TOE from me! Noughts, oughts, and all that he ever taught, bought, sought, and fought flashed before his red-inked eyes as he intentionally dropped like a stone for short whiles before flaring his wings to catch the air and turn potential energy into kinetic to gain forward progress out to sea, he far and away the nuttiest professor now.

“Time now to square accounts with heaven’s throne,
For seeking Truth that flesh has never known;
My life was borrowed, spent on fortune’s scroll,
Each debit matched with credit, joy for loan.”

Time to square accounts with my maker on account of my curiosity to account for Everything; money is of no account now; from Death my life was a borrowed debit, but I spent it, loved it, and lived it, on good fortune’s credit.

The brine rose up to claim its salted prize,
As Prof and Pat shared final compromise;
“We’re dropping out,” they smiled into the dark,
“Our number called beneath these starless skies.”

It was no use; Profpat was going to fall into the ocean. He could sense the moisture, almost taste the brine, and was soon going to swim with the smell of the fishes. Good try, said Prof to Pat, his other selfsame, but you’re not going to pass this course. It’s OK, said Pat to Prof, I’m dropping out; my number is up.

But lo! What light breaks through the shrouded deep?
A carrier’s halo gleams across the leap;
Yin-Yang in perfect balance shines below,
As heaven’s pattern wakes from darkness’ sleep.

Good old Prof was ready to yin his yang in the fine way that he lived: in the black, all the books balanced except for a spot of white in the darkness of the Yin. What’s that below?

One final push, one last heroic strain,
Thirty feet down to safety’s blessed plane;
The ninja ship receives its destined guest,
Then darkness claims the ocean once again.

The landing lights of the ninja carrier’s heliopad flashed on in the glorious pattern of heaven, heat, and light, combined with earth, dark, and cold, each revolving around the other, the Yin/Yang symbol of a cyclic and rounded life, and Profpat dropped thirty feet, gave one last push forward, and landed just as the carrier’s lights went back off.

“Welcome, Professor,” spoke a voice of night,
While pencil-point pierced through the absent light;
“You live through glory now,” the voice declared,
“Though death’s embrace makes life burn twice as bright.”

“Welcome, Professor” said a voice in the wilderness of the darkness of nothing, “Breeze die down so we come to you, at full power.”
“I’ll show you a thing or 2.5,” said Prof, pointing a pencil into the inky blackness of night.
“Ouch! I get the point, but really now, PatrickPro, you just live through great experience of glory of life.”
“To die for glory is not living!”
“Man who face death appreciate life more. This good training for future of save yiniverse and yangiverse.”
“Well, that is my questionable long and arduous search.”
“See, quest great expedition. I train you in number of things. I am 9.0 degree Grand Master.”

The Ninth Degree Grand Master, wise with jest,
Posed riddles that put wisdom to the test;
“What’s one plus one?” “Two!” “No, when sand piles merge,
They form but one” - thus was the truth expressed.

“Now, take two apples from three apples; what do you have?”
“One?”
“No, you took two, remember; they are in your hand.”
“Hardy-har, Proffer, what be one plus one.”
“Two?”
“No, they were sand piles and all lump into one bigger one.”

They traded quips of numbers, dark, and light,
Of dyslexia’s reversed delight;
“What’s darkest dark?” asked Prof, and Nine replied
With verse of Shadow, Space, and Love’s sweet plight.

“Do you know accounting, Grand Master, ninth degree ninja, emperor of the multiverse?”
“Just call me number nine. I no good account; get digits mixed up, but make million that way. What you do on other ledger side?”
“I color quarks through the prism of super strings and theorize the emission of an electron from the proton.”
“Nuclear ‘unclear’ to me. Have dyslexia. Am member of DNA.”
“DNA?”
“National Dyslexics Association.”
“Ok, ninja, good one, but it’s not good to make light of handicaps unless you really have one.”
“Ok, #9, what is fifty quadrillion, thirty cotillions, 6 pillions, and…”
“That too hard.”
“…times zero?”
“Oh, it be zip. Quiz: What correct grammar: Six and seven ARE fourteen or six and seven IS fourteen?”
“Thirteen.”
“Ah, that unlucky number, plus this part 13 of story.”
“I always stay on the 14th floor of hotels, so I am safe, plus I never include a chapter 11 in my books, for that is filing for bankruptcy. Anyway, 13 at the last supper works for me.”
“I have a #9 in my name but it silent.”
“Ho-ho. Are the ToeQuestors days numbered?”
“Yes, today August 30 on calendar. Now, what best digit?”
“The toe, but not at the moment since I stubbed it on your deck on a big black dot.”
“Want me call tow truck? Ha. So, how old you?”
“An uncounted, innumerable, untold amount.”
“How see four sunset in one day?”
“Run up a hill.”
“Want come in out of dark? Start training?”
“Yes, but what is the darkest dark of all?”
“‘I’m the darkest,’ said the Shadow to the Night.’
“‘No,’ said Midnight, ‘compared to me you’re bright.’
“‘You floodlights!’ said Starless Space, ‘Stop your fight.’
“‘The darkest plight is the lack of love’s delight!’”
“You good man, Prof. Come aboard.”
“Thanks, niner. How did they catch onto me?”
“Government try spend $787.00 from account on one screwdriver, come up 3 penny short; do some million-dollar audit.”
“Well, it was only a matter of time.”
“Here postcard from Fredrick. What say?”
“It says that the twaining of training is going well; he is learning diesel.”

The pencil proved extension of the mind,
As reality’s illusions were defined;
“The brain creates the world we think we know,
Like glider’s wings with self became combined.”

“Ah, good news. OK, now we do test of touch. Ah, see you have pencil.”
“This is my best pencil; let’s not ruin it. I began the theory of the proton with it, and the remainder of the theory is still inside this pencil somewhere.”
“We do no harm. Hold pencil and run it across chair seat fabric; no, wait, use eraser end so not write autograph; now, rub; you seem to feel texture at pencil end?”
“Yes, amazing, it feels like an extension of my fingers, but of course I have no sense organs way out there.”
“So then, brain fabricate reality, just like hang glider wing seem part of you.”
“True, so that’s why I couldn’t afford a helicopter!”
“Yes, PatProf, and so you ‘see’ that we only see inside of head where all is fabricate.”
“I agree. I fabricate you, scents and odours fabricate from molecule shapes in the nostrils, and sounds fabricate from air vibrations, as well as colors from waves and even the illusion of light itself in a dark head, especially during my favorite pastime of sleeping and dreaming.”

“You tune like TV to the world’s great show,
But sleep too much has dimmed your sensing’s glow;
I’ll teach you touch at distance, pole unseen—”
“With ladies near?” Prof jest’d, “I must say no!”

“You good illusion of physical world, being like some TV tuner receive broadcast from far. But, you somewhat out of touch from doze too much, so I teach you touch base ten feet away with invisible ten foot pole.”
“With my girlfriends around or not around? I don’t know about that.”
“That be touch down, but recall for illegal procedure.”

“What touched you last?” the Master slyly asked,
As Prof demurred, his private thoughts unmasked;
“Some matters best left wrapped in mystery’s veil,
While wisdom’s deeper meanings go untasked.”

“Now, what touch lately?”
“That’s personal.”

They spoke of Eden’s ancient touch of sin,
Of knowledge lost and found and lost again;
“One day we’ll hang the apple back,” said Prof,
“And heal Creation’s pain since time’s begin.”

“Ah, sorry. Why kids touch something when tell not to?”
“It all started in the Garden of Eden.”
“Ah, very touching story of dumb people made by smart god.”
“You’re still holding two apples.”
“Ah, yes, you funny. We make apple sauce and welcome you for training, Grand Master Professor and Temporal TOE Protector of Universe that can someday give good life to all.”
“One day we will hang Adam’s apple back on the Tree of Knowledge and hopefully help correct the distortion and sadness of all the 13.75 billion years of creation.”

“By Tutankhamun’s tomb!” he softly swore,
“They seek the TOE, and something even more:
My sketched design of forces nuclear,
The pyramid of power at its core!”

“By Tutankhamun’s tomb!” his spirit cried,
“The TOE they seek to wield with boundless pride!
My sketched design of nuclear demands,
Where force pyramidal does yet reside!”

Holy King Tut’s tomb! he exclaimed. They really want to control the world with the TOE! They are probably after my drawing, too, the one showing the pyramidal opposition of the weak and strong nuclear forces and the transition of the electric and magnetic forces.

His pistol nestled close beneath his arm,
He walked the streets, affecting casual charm,
When rang his phone with broken foreign speech:
“Your pyramid betrayed you—flee from harm!”

His pistol’s weight gave comfort as he strode,
While questions of discovery rode,
Till phone-spoke voice in broken accent sang:
“Your pyramid before your house has showed.

He patted his underarm, checking that his pistol was still there, and sauntered down the street. How did they find me? His cell phone rang and a voice said, “How find you, Mr. Fred, is by pyramid in front yard.”

Make haste unto the station’s northern gate,
Where nine-oh-five shall bear you from your fate.”
The line went dead with swift decisive click,
As Time’s swift hands did mock him while he wait.

Please proceed train station. 9:05 train north. Hurry. Click.”

The tunnel’s mouth before him grimly gaped,
Its center dimly lit, its shadows draped
By single bulb that cast its meager glow—
He pressed ahead, lest from his train escaped.

Fredrick walked and jogged a ways without further incident and entered a tunnel that would take him under the train tracks to the station. He hesitated, at first, seeing that the tunnel was dimly lit by only a single light bulb in the center, but then moved on in, not wanting to miss the train.

His phone’s shrill warning pierced the tunnel’s gloom:
“Four crimson KGB sedans spell doom!
They race from either end to trap you here—
Make haste to plot, or this shall be your tomb!”

His cell phone began ringing off the hook and alerted him as follows: “Four KGB red sedans arriving each end of tunnel. Make good plan fast!”

He shed his sweater in the center’s light,
Where lone bulb cast its beam through tunneled night.
The sedans’ screech and crash of dented steel
Announced his foes had come to end his flight.

Fredrick reflected a moment, sizing up the scene. He quickly walked to the center of the tunnel, took off his sweater, draped it over his shoulder, and stood under the lone light. He could hear the red KGB sedans screeching to a halt at each end, some of them going a bit too far and denting their fenders. Very poor and reckless drivers!

Eight agents moved with weapons raised to strike,
Their tranquilizing darts poised to dislike.
“Hands up!” the leader barked in English clear,
While guards stood watch at endings of the pike.
Eight KGB agents entered the tunnel and three of them approached from either direction, the remaining two staying back as rear guards, one at each end of the tunnel.

“No,” Fredrick answered, calm amid their threat.
“Raise hands or sleep!” they warned without regret.
“First tell me who commands,” he calmly spoke,
As closer still their circling dance was set.

“Hands up,” said the KGB leader, in English, as they all pointed tranquilizer guns at Fredrick, front and back.
“No.”

“Colonel Patov,” came the proud reply,
“With Captain Demetri’s team from rear draws nigh.
Submit to search and come in peace,” he urged,
“Or tranquilized and beaten you shall lie.”

“Must I repeat the command; raise up your hands or go to sleep!”
“No,” replied Fredrick, “I must know who asks me?“

The agents approached a bit closer. “I am famous Colonel Patov; you will follow orders or be subdued and severely beaten. Behind you is Demetri, my best and most merci–less captain, with his team. You have no-where to go, Fredrick. Raise your hands, be searched; come with us peacefully and we won’t even have to use the tranquilizer darts.”

“Since you insist,” spoke Fredrick with a smile,
His hands rose slowly in surrendering style.
“No contest here—I’ll pass the other side,
As lights go out in this dim tunnel’s mile.”

“Okay,” answered Fredrick, “as long as you put it that way.”
The agents approached slowly from Fredrick’s front and back as he began to raise his hands. They were about twenty feet away now. “No contest,” said Fredrick, “I’ll be passing on to the other side. It’s lights out for me!”

With swift resolve he smashed the bulb above,
His sweater fixed where light once shed its love,
Then shoeless, loosed a scream that seemed to fill
Each corner of the tunnel’s darkened grove.

Fredrick raised his hands quickly and smashed the light bulb, then attached his sweater to the fixture, having noted the spot beforehand, slipped off his shoes and left them there, and let out a blood curdling scream that seemed to echo from all directions at once.

The agents, thinking Fredrick charged their line,
Shot darts through darkness thick as ancient wine,
While he pressed silent ’gainst the tunnel wall,
As chaos bloomed within their grand design.

The KGB thought Fredrick was charging them, but in actuality he had just slipped sideways, noiselessly, without his shoes, and had squatted down, hugging the wall of the tunnel that had just been plunged into total darkness.

“Hold fire!” Patov called. “We strike our own!
Two men are down!” Their discord clearly shown.
“Join hands and sweep the walls,” the colonel cried,
“He lurks between us still, though not yet known!”

Darts began flying through the darkness, towards the screech, but Patov, a seasoned KGB veteran, called out, “Stop, we’re only hitting each other. I have one down. Demetri?“
“One as well, Colonel.”
Patov added quickly, “Link hands and sweep ahead, touching the walls; he is still somewhere between us.”

A coat brushed past where Fredrick crouched in shade,
While at his sweater wild confusion played—
Agents thrashing at his empty clothes,
Their blind assaults a comedy displayed.

Fredrick felt the edge of a coat almost touch him, but, just about then the agents reached his hanging sweater and his shoes on the floor there was an intense struggle with Fredrick’s abandoned clothes and shoes, some agents even punching each other out in the darkness.

Along the wall he crept with calculated stride,
Found sleeping guard whose coat he’d soon divide,
Then touched another form that gave him pause—
One more than Demetri had testified.

Thus, during this time, Fredrick scooted along, found the napping agent and removed his coat. While moving toward the end of the tunnel, Fredrick encountered another body against the wall and thought That’s funny, Demetri said only one was down.

The tunnel’s end showed hints of dawning light,
Where final guard stood watch in conscious might.
Above, the coming train announced its way
With whistle’s cry through shadows of the night.

Fredrick halted, noting that there was some ambient light at the end of the tunnel and that there would be no way to slip past the rear guard undetected. A whistle and a rumble indicated that the northbound train was arriving.

In borrowed coat, he spoke in Russian tongue:
“It’s Demetri,” the false assurance rung.
The guard’s brief pause proved fatal to his cause—
Swift pistol-strike, and past him Fredrick sprung.

Fredrick, wearing the borrowed KGB coat, walked calmly toward the rear guard, who tensed and pointed his weapon. Fredrick then whispered, in Russian, from several feet away “It’s me, Demetri“, and so the guard relaxed a bit, and it was in this split second that Fredrick leapt toward him and clunked him on the head with his pistol, took the guard’s shoes, and put them on.

In stolen shoes he scaled the platform’s height,
As northbound train prepared its hasty flight.
“I’m truly Rushin’ now,” he mused with pride,
While Oslo’s troubles faded into night.

He then ran up to the platform and jumped aboard the already departing train. I am really Rushin’ now.

Fate smiled upon our hero’s dining chance:
The duck he’d left behind resumed its dance
Upon the menu of his chosen car—
A feast to ease his northward-bound advance.

But through the window came a warning sight:
Five agents boarding in their vengeful flight.
Swift Fredrick rose and to the coupling ran,
Left half the train behind in comic plight.

It was Fredrick’s lucky day in that roast duck was on the dining car menu and so he ordered it. At the next station, Fredrick looked out the window and saw the five agents, minus one clunker and the two sleepers, running for the train and boarding the rear cars just as they were pulling away. Fredrick’s duck begin to take flight again as he ran to the end of the dining car and uncoupled the remainder of the train, pretty much leaving it sitting in the station. Good training.

To General Burkov word of failure flew,
Aboard his private train with pampered crew.
New orders given, wheels began to turn,
As Fredrick to another engine flew.

The KGBers then notified their top man, General Burkov, who happened to be in the vicinity aboard his own lavish private train, of their latest defeat (a misplaced clause?). Burkov gave new orders to his engineer. Fredrick jumped onto another train.

Through dining car and sleeper swift he passed,
Through baggage car his final sprint was cast,
His ToeQuest card convinced the engineer
To leave his post—the die was finally cast.

He ran back through the dining car, the sleeper cars, the baggage car, and onto the engine, showing his ToeQuest membership card and advising the engineer that he should leave the train for his own safety.

Behind him, Burkov’s train with thunderous might
Came roaring off the siding in their flight.
But Fredrick, wise to railways’ ordered ways,
Knew such close scheduling could not be right.

About then, General Burkov’s train came off a siding at high speed and onto Fredrick’s track, about three miles behind. Fredrick noted this oddity, thinking that trains are not scheduled this closely.

He stopped his train beside a mining track,
Threw switches there, then stepped a little back,
His dinner still in hand, to watch the show
As Burkov’s fate rolled down the ancient track.

Fred continued onward until he saw a signal for an upcoming siding, and stopped his train just beyond it, got out, and switched the main track onto the siding that led to an old abandoned mine, and just stood there to witness the action, carrying his roast duck. This should be good.

Too fast around the curve came Burkov’s pride,
Too late they saw the switch that would decide—
Their emergency brake proved futile there
As toward the mine shaft all were forced to ride.

Burkov came roaring much too fast around the curve, spotted the track switch too late, and tried an emergency stop, but his train kept going onto the siding and off toward the deserted mine shaft.

They leapt for life as eighteen stories deep
Their lavish train took its eternal sleep.
“No one does this!” raged Burkov from the ground,
“Send every agent forth, let no train keep!”

Burkov and friends jumped off at the last minute, just before the entire train plunged into the mine shaft and was swallowed into the eighteen story depths, never to be seen again. Shafted! Burkov cursed that “No one does this to me and lives! Send forth every agent and every train!”

But Fredrick, sampling duck with quiet grace,
Knew forest paths would give a safer space.
Ten miles to ninja shelter lay ahead—
A pleasant walk at peace’s gentle pace.

Fredrick hopped back on the engine, not planning to be on it much longer, for it wasn’t healthy and it wasn’t all that far to the ninja base, ten miles perhaps. He could take to the forest and walk. The roast duck was still with him and so he finally got to sample it. Ah, delicious.

A tunnel loomed ahead through forest shade;
“Not this again,” thought Fred, his choice was made—
He left the train and sought the woodland path,
Where giant bird showed where his route was laid.

There was a tunnel coming up ahead, and Fredrick thought, not this again, and stopped just before it, got everyone out and walked off by himself through the woods and toward the distant ninja base. A large bird pointed the way.

Then shadow stirred and took a living form:
“Good moves,” it spoke, “through all this recent storm.
Third degree now yours,” the Ninth declared,
“From Master Ninja, to tradition’s norm.”

In a while, a shadow appeared and came to life beside Fredrick saying, “Good moves, Fredrick-san. I give you third degree now. I am ninth degree ninja Grand Master.”
“Hello ninth.”

“Like wind I move, like water flow with grace.”
“I heard both functions at a different place,“
Fred quipped, while Ninja spoke of darkness arts:
“From nothing came I to this meeting space.”

“You not see me come; move like wind and go like water.”
“I heard you breaking wind and going water.”
“C’mon, that speech figure; beside, those awhile back. I wear black, come out of black between bush; appear as nothing.”

“In nothing,” Fred replied, “I hold degree.”
Then boom of explosion split earth and tree.
“Red engine meets our tunnel’s other end,“
The shadow smiled. “Now that was meant to be.”

“I am an expert on nothing.”
They heard an explosion. “We take care of light at other end of tunnel, some kind of speeding red KGB engine.”

“But where were you,” asked Fred, “when first I fought
Those eight who thought they had me surely caught?“
“I watched you learn—good training! Then I stayed,
You touched me once, remember? Second thought?“

“Thanks, but where was my protection from the eight KGB agents in the first place in the first tunnel?” asked Fred.

“Ah yes! The count seemed odd within the dark!”
“Just half of me was needed for that spark,
But splitting’s not my style!” the Ninja grinned.
Through forest depths they traced their woodland mark.

“Good training. But I there in second place in tunnel to protect you,” said the Ninja, “but you not need me.”
“You were there in the tunnel?“
“Yes, I there. You touch me once.”
“Oh yeah, thanks for being there; I thought I had an arithmetic problem. Okay, but was that it, just you?“
“That even too much, just need half of me, but I no like banana split so bring whole self! Ha-ha.”
“Good one, half and half.”
They walked on, for many, many miles.

“How goes it, Fred?” the shadow softly said.
“One foot before the other moves ahead.”
“Yes.” Then: “Sweet music comes to pierce the soul,
No preparation serves,” the Master led.

“How going, Fred?“
“I’m just putting one foot ahead of the other.”
“When cross zone, hear the sweetest saddest music ever. It go down deep, but also energize. No one can be ready for this.”
“I’m ready,” Fredrik spoke with certainty,
Until the notes flowed forth in purity—
Such sweetness mixed with sorrow touched his heart,
While tears revealed humanity’s deep plea.

“I’m ready.”
“OK, here come.”

“You spoke true words,” said Fred through misty eyes,
“No soul could ready be for such sweet cries.
They speak of human plight, yet give us strength
To aid the cause as far as power lies.”

Tears streamed from Fredrick’s eyes. “You’re right, there was no way to be ready for that; it reminds one about the plight of humanity, energizing one to aid the cause.”

Within the ninja base, tests did begin:
“What cola graces now this cup herein?“
“Not Coke nor Pepsi, but RC’s diet brew,“
Fred solved the riddle with a knowing grin.

“Now,” Fred, sir, “do some taste test: this Coke or Pepsi?“
“Neither; it is RC Diet Cola, from a can; nice try.”
“Ah, you have good taste. Now, what wine this be?“
“It’s a nonalcoholic sparkling grape beverage from Holland.”
“Ah, Fred, but what year.”
“This year“.

Through wine and duck the testing carried on,
Till taste itself became their wisdom’s dawn:
“Three classes of the buds,” Fred sagely spoke,
“Through vectors sweet and sour are withdrawn.”
“Now you taste this,” said Fredrick, as he pulled a piece of duck out of his pocket.
“Ah, yes, duck from Peking, south region. Very good. Now, what taste really consist of.”
“Well, although taste buds vary somewhat, there being three main classes, it all really comes down to the length of the vectors of the taste matrix of sweet, salt, bitter, and sour.”
“Yes, sir Fred. Fine taste. So, someone say something taste no good, then…“
“We don’t believe them, since their taste buds may be different from ours.”

“Some see the colors different than we see?“
“Yes, slight,” said Fred, “as different all may be.”
“That why some dress for darkness in the dark?“
“Why dress at all?” Fred matched his repartee.

“Some see different color too?“
“Yes, slightly.”
“That why some look like dress in dark?“
“We getting near outer zone of base, Fred; maybe see some magic stuff.”
“Really?“
“Yes, that could be, but you dress for the dark in the dark and go forth into the dark, so why wear anything?“
“Ah, good. Ha-ha.”

“What finest taste has crossed your knowing tongue?“
“Eternity’s sweet flavor,” Fred had sung.
“Ah, wise man you!” the ninja praised with joy,
While wisdom’s bells through both their laughter rung.

“Fred. What best taste ever?“
“The taste of eternity that I am tasting right now.”
“Ah, Fredrick, you wise man.”
“As wise as wise guy you.”

“Why not use pistol in the tunnel’s night?“
“No aim was true, the flash would give my plight.”
“If desperate?” “Then throw the cocked gun far,
Let chaos lead them from my path of flight.”
“More ha-ha. Why not shoot pistol in tunnel?“
“Well, there was nowhere to aim, plus they could have identified my position from the chamber barrel flash before I had a chance to shoot them all.”
“Good. What if they put light?“
“Then the better I know where they are to shoot them.”
“What if you get desperate or have to sneeze.”
“Then I cock the pistol and throw it where I am not, as I run away. Hopefully, it fires where it lands and draws their attention to it and away from me as I escape.”

“All this you planned within a minute’s span?“
“As traffic planner, that’s how thought began—
All directions must be weighed with care,
Through tunnel, sky, and every mortal plan.”

“All this plan in one minute make?“
“Yes, I am a traffic planner and must consider all directions, even up and down, and underground through tunnels.”

“Shall we sell tale to mystery’s DeMille?“
“I thought such tales from fancy’s simple will!”
“No, truth stands stranger far than fiction’s art,“
As wisdom’s laughter echoed through them still.

“Well, you mind if we sell story to detective mystery writer DeMille, make money?“
“Fine, go ahead, but I always thought they made these things up.”
“No, truth stranger than fiction.”

“How long’s a china man?” the ninja played.
“Yes, that’s his name,” Fred’s answer quickly made.
“No double positive exists!” came next.
“Yeah, right,” Fred smirked, their wit in masquerade.

“Any more tests?“
“How long is a china man.”
“Yes, that is his name.”
“No can fool you.”
“You hear of double negative, like ’didn’t see no duck’?“
“Yes, they cancel and a duck appears, for since I didn’t see everything but a duck, then I must have seen a duck, but even this is not for sure.”
“Yes, maybe you ate duck. Now, there no such thing as double positives!”
“Yeah, right.”

“What study calls you now?” “Just nothing’s way.”
“Ah, hardest state to hold from day to day—
For nothing needs a force to keep intact,
Then something fills the void we sought to slay.”

“Good one. What study you lately?“
“Nothing.”
“Ah, very hard state to maintain, so maybe not exist.”
“Really?“
“Yes, it would take a god or some force to keep nothing intact, but then not really nothing, for other stuff there. That my theory. It nothing really. Very little. A small point. A void to avoid. Not much. No big deal. Some zilch.”

“The Theory Of Nothing grows most long,
On ToeQuest’s thread where seekers throng.”
“True, Mr. Rick. First sleep, then rest, then void...”
“Welcome to NoQuest!” sealed their wisdom’s song.

“All right already; it’s not easy studying nothing, you know; but the Theory Of Nothing (TON) ToeQuest thread is one of the longest threads ever.”
“True, Mr. Rick. I like do nothing. But first I relax, then sleep, then rest up, then prepare do nothing, remove all thoughts, try not move…“

I ventured down to Venus’ clouded face,
Expecting something of celestial grace;
Instead found acid rain and crushing weight—
No goddess would choose this as dwelling place.

The sulfur fumes would make a skunk turn pale,
While temperatures would cook a devil’s tail;
Compared to this infernal pressure cooker,
Uranus’ methane breeze would be a gale.

Jupiter, the king of gaseous spheres,
Has storms that’ve raged for hundreds of years;
Its Great Red Spot, a tempest wild and free,
Could swallow Earth with all its hemispheres.

Saturn’s rings may look like heaven’s lace,
But fragments fierce fly through that lovely space;
A billion moonlets dance their deadly waltz—
No tourist trap I’d recommend with grace.

Those gas giants with their swirling bands
Have gathered moons like grains of cosmic sands;
Europa, Titan, Io, and the rest—
Their mooning around has gotten out of hand.

That leaves us Mars, the red world’s rusty plains,
Where ancient rivers left their dried remains;
Though Klingons now by Uranus patrol,
On Mars at least the gravity’s humane.

Perhaps we’d best stay home on Earth instead,
Where air is sweet and skies are overhead,
For though the Cosmos calls with siren song,
Most vacation spots out there would leave us dead.

The universe may sparkle, vast and bright,
With worlds that beckon through the endless night,
But Earth remains our perfect paradise—
The only planet that feels just right.

The Matrix

The Infinite pulses through space-time’s web,
A matrix of possibility and flow,
Where mathematics whispers ancient codes
Through dimensions that we cannot know.

Information dances with Energy,
Twin aspects of reality’s deep source,
Weaving patterns through the quantum foam
That guide creation’s fundamental course.

The Broadcast

The Cosmic Background fills the void
With whispers from creation’s dawn,
An omnidirectional antenna array
Broadcasting since light first shone.

Its static holds encrypted tales
Of quantum fluctuations past,
When space and time were newly born
And causality was cast.

The Pattern

Interference ripples through the deep,
Where virtual particles emerge and fade,
Their quantum waltz of might-have-been
Creates the substance from which worlds are made.

Reality shimmers like a hologram,
Each fragment holding all we see,
While strings vibrate their sacred songs
Through manifolds of symmetry.

The Code

Like DNA but vaster still,
The cosmic code writes space and time,
In languages of spin and charge
Where entropy keeps perfect rhyme.

Through quantum fields that permeate
The vacuum’s pregnant emptiness,
Information flows and builds
The scaffolding of consciousness.

The Transmission

Each particle contains within
A message from the universe,
Entangled threads that stretch across
The cosmic web, for better or worse.

The void itself remembers all,
Each quantum state forever stored
In patterns of probability
Where past and future are explored.

The Program

Is spacetime but a simulation,
A program running deep and vast?
Are we subroutines in the code,
Through quantum circuits flowing fast?

The matrix of reality
Computes on scales both large and small,
While information’s endless dance
Creates the stage that holds it all.

The Signal

Through background radiation’s hiss,
We hear creation’s primal song,
A melody of math and light
That’s been playing all along.

Each wavelength carries ancient news
Of how the cosmos came to be,
While quantum tunnels bridge the gap
Between what is and what could be.

The Structure

Like lattices of crystal thought,
The universe builds form from void,
Using rules both strange and deep
That Einstein’s God might have employed.

The cosmic DNA unfolds
Through dimensions curled and bright,
Where information crystallizes
Into matter, energy, and light.

The Resonance

Virtual reality emerges
From interference patterns pure,
Where quantum superposition builds
The solid world we think secure.

Yet underneath our classical realm,
The matrix continues its endless play,
Computing futures yet to come
As present moments slip away.

The Understanding

Perhaps the universe itself
Is one vast quantum neural net,
Processing information flows
Through patterns we don’t fathom yet.

The Infinite speaks through the code
Of quarks and leptons, space and time,
While consciousness emerges from
This cosmic algorithm sublime.

The Mystery

Yet still we cannot fully grasp
The deepest levels of this dance,
Where information, energy,
And mind entwine by quantum chance.

The universe keeps secrets still
Within its matrix vast and strange,
While we decode small fragments of
The patterns that will never change.

Each moment bears within its fleeting form
The echoed traces of what came before;
Subjective aim transforms the uniform
Into creation's never-ending score.

We are not things but poems being writ,
A string of moments dancing into one;
The many and the one forever knit—
A billion suns comprising just one sun.

The void of time fills up with occasions bright,
Each grasping, feeling, yearning into form;
The universe—a symphony of light
Where past and future meet in endless storm.

So Whitehead taught: reality's not clay,
But living moments born and passed away.

The actual world—a tapestry unfurled
Of prehended moments, gathered whole;
Each subject weaves the threads of what has swirled
Into new patterns as the cosmos rolls.

No static substance underlying all,
But drops of experience, self-creating;
Each moment rises, answers to the call,
Then perishes, its being still vibrating.

The great philosopher's vision clear and bold:
Reality is not of things, but acts;
Each "now" contains what every "then" has told—
A living process, not just lifeless facts.

The past is not just gone, but flows within
Each nascent moment, ready to begin.

Beyond the veil of common sense's reach,
Lies truth more fluid than our words contain;
Each entity, like waves upon the beach,
Is but a ripple in experience's chain.

The Poet’s primordial vision guides
Each occasion toward its best becoming;
The lure of beauty where all truth resides—
Eternal objects, endlessly oncoming.

The universe is not a clockwork cold,
But living feeling, sentient at its core;
Each quantum flash of being, brave and bold,
Creates itself, then passes through death's door.

So Whitehead saw beyond the ancient rift—
As moments bloom and die, existence shifts.

Each moment blooms, a pulse in Time’s great sea,
Not things, but acts—events that come to be.
From drop to drop the cosmos takes its shape,
A dance of mind and matter, wild and free.

No static stone, no idle, lifeless clod—
But process moves beneath the soil and sod.
Each flash of being, brief as morning dew,
Is real as stars, is kissed by thought not odd.

These “occasions” rise with feeling at their core,
They prehend the past, yet seek a little more.
Each grasps the world, then yields itself in turn,
A spark that fades, but opens up the door.

They form a web, these nodes of sentient flare,
The past flows in, the future stirs the air.
Reality’s not built of blocks and beams,
But woven through with feeling, time, and care.

The world’s not made, but making ever still,
With every act a push against the will.
No fate is fixed, no god is locked above—
Creation wakes in each occasion’s thrill.

So sip this cup—each moment brims with wine,
Distilled from all that was, in grand design.
A drop contains the cosmos in its fold,
And flickers out, yet calls the next to shine.

The world becomes, it never merely is,
A flux of feeling, not a world of fizz.
No atom sits alone in timeless gloom—
It feels, it yearns, it tells us what it does.

Each moment’s born from many come before,
It draws their echo, adds a little more.
Then perishes, a whisper in the dark—
Yet leaves a trace no future can ignore.

Subject becomes object, tossed in the stream,
Each plays its part within the larger scheme.
No soul stands still, no world remains the same—
All shift and shape as in a woven dream.

From Poet’s lure to matter’s smallest twitch,
Each moment leans toward depths we cannot pitch.
Reality’s a poem never done—
Penned not in stone, but in becoming’s witch.

Not being, but becoming—this we are,
More like a flame than like a fallen star.
We flicker, burn, and pass our light along—
Each life a note in Time’s unending bar.

So here we dance, occasion upon flame,
Each flicker formed with joy, regret, or shame.
Yet in the forming lies the sacred spark—
A fleeting self that bears eternal name.

The stars themselves are thoughts that came to be,
Each nova sings in process, not decree.
A galaxy’s a rhythm, not a rock—
It hums with ancient acts of poetry.

Each quark, each pulse, each curve of stellar flare,
Responds to past and feels the future’s air.
The cosmos is a mind that builds itself—
A scaffold strung with intuition’s care.

No vast machine with cold and mindless gears—
But swirls of yearning shaped by hope and fears.
A thousand billion hearts in every sphere,
All whispering their stories through the years.

The past is real, but not a prison cell,
Its echoes guide, but do not bind or quell.
Each moment holds the power to re-form
The curve of time, the place where starlight fell.

From primal flux to now, the arc has bent—
Not by command, but lure and deep intent.
A One who woos, not rules, the world to grow—
Each choice a note in Love’s great instrument.

So let the comet blaze and atoms spin,
Each dance of dust a tale that dwells within.
No void is empty—everywhere there burns
A silent hymn of process born in din.

Creation is not done—it is the song,
Each verse a shift, each rhyme both right and wrong.
We are the singers, listeners, and score—
The universe becoming all along.

Rascal’s instructions read:

You will need to ride a bike rather soon along the dark country roads with many dips and hills, twists and turns, from your home to our facility. No lights are allowed. You should consider beforehand what you will do about any blinding headlights coming at you and how you will navigate the pitch dark areas of roads when you pass through dense forests. A cold diet coke with vitamins awaits you. Good luck. This is not a drill, for there are those who have just recently become aware of your many talents.

Six black sedans pulled swift before his gate
As Rascal worked on cosmos’ expanding state;
He fled so fast his image lingered still,
While agents breached his door—already late.

Rascal made his preparations and then finished some work on the expanding universe. Out the window he could see six FBI-looking black sedans pulling up very quickly. He grabbed a water bottle and raced out the back door so fast that a faint image of himself was left standing in the house. He hopped on his bicycle and was off and away while the Feds broke down the front door which was already unlocked.

Through moonless night he pedaled swift and strong,
In fifteenth gear down slopes he flew along;
Then crawling up in first gear’s lowest pace,
He paused to drink, both right and wrong.

The bike ride was going to be a lot worse than he had thought, for there was no moon. Rascal reached 15th gear on a down slope and only downshifted when it became harder to pedal, of course, finally just inching along in first gear upon a steep up-slope, where he stopped to survey the scene and have a sip of H2O.

“The price of knowing Everything,” he mused,
As yin and yang within his heart diffused;
Both elevated by their cosmic finds,
Yet hunted now by powers they’d refused.

I knew this would happen when we discovered the work-ings of Everything, feeling both elated and deflated in a sort of yin/yang balance.

When headlights blazed against his cycling path,
One eye he closed to save night vision’s wrath;
The other blinded, then quick-switched to see
The mailbox looming on destruction’s swath.

Rascal was soon off again and sailing along when a car with bright lights approached him from the opposite direction. Rascal closed his right eye just before his left was blinded by the lights, then quickly opened his right eye after the car had passed. Whew, that was close, he thought, after swiftly correcting out of the way of a mailbox.

Through forest dense where darkness absolute
Denied all sight to guide his desperate route,
He found the roadside’s white line far below—
A ghostly guide through night’s pursuit.

He next rode on a road through a densely forested area and could see virtually nothing at all, but he didn’t panic, and quickly gazed downward at the white line at the side of the lane for guidance, but it was really rather scary.

More fearsome than a theater’s dark surprise
(Where larger ladies might unseen arise),
He followed that pale thread through blackest night,
For DNA’s deep truth before him lies.

It was much worse than walking into a dark movie theater and sitting down on a fat lady. Anything for the DNA information, he thought.

Ahead the trees flashed warning’s dancing light
Of pursuers hidden from his sight;
He dove to shelter in a roadside ditch
As sedans thundered through the racing night.

He noted some flickering lights bouncing off the trees ahead, meaning that they were coming from way behind him, knowing this without even having to look back, for this is how it is riding at night, and so he pulled over into a ditch behind some bushes, and watched six black sedans pass by at about 90 miles an hour. Holy mother of all reality, he exclaimed softly.

In seventy-ninth gear he flew once more,
As truck lights loomed his swift retreat to score;
Like gluon bound, he threaded white line’s path,
Then drafted upward toward wind’s higher door.

Rascal checked his map and was off again, in 79th gear, going so fast that he didn’t care to stop for a large truck coming up behind him, and couldn’t anyway, so he hugged the side of the road and threaded the white lane marker, sticking to it like a gluon as the truck swept alongside, then quickly swerved towards the rear of the truck and drafted behind it uphill, defying gravity at its own game in losing it to the wind.

When truck turned off, brief rest he dared to take,
Till brain commanded rear to re-awake;
Through whistling air his pajamas did flap,
While bugs left testimony in their wake.

The truck turned off; Rascal rested. It was time to really get going again, said Rascal’s brain to his rear that was now resting back. He got up to speed again, exhilarated by the adventure of the escapade. The air was was rushing by and whistling in his ears and his pajamas were flapping in the breeze. Bugs splatted against him.

“Now this is living!” thought he with a grin,
Though death and life drew boundaries paper-thin;
His water drained, heart racing, legs grown numb—
Five miles remained through darkness thick as sin.

Now this is living, although there is a fine line between the here-before and the hereafter thereafter. Rascal was drenched in sweat, even on this cool night, and drank the last of the bottled water. Only five miles or so to go. His heart was racing at 150 bpm and his legs were getting numb, so he had to stop. He could hardly stand it, so he sat down. This simple ninja training exercise had turned into a life and death struggle. The enemy will do anything to gain my information about the Theory of Everything.

A barnyard circus crossed his path in haste:
A rooster chasing love, a possum placed
In death’s pretense, deer darting through the dark,
And squirrel beneath his wheels, life nearly erased.

He was off again. A rooster crossed the road because there was a chick on the other side, and Rascal missed hitting it by just a feather, then a possum played dead in the road, or was already, and a deer darted out… If these were not enough, a squirrel that was already in the clear tried to dive under his wheels.

Like juggler skilled with cosmic thoughts in air,
He threaded time’s eye with a nimble flair;
Through needle’s loop where camel fears to tread,
He wove between the here and over there.

His ability to juggle multiple ideas came in handy and so he threaded a needle that he found in a haystack and sewed a stitch in time and passed through the eye like a camel into the night’s heavens.

Twelve headlights swept their searching beams around
As FBI combed every inch of ground;
Behind the bush he paused for nature’s call
While agents searched each structure to be found.

Twelve headlights were returning, and the searchlights scanning, the Feds now realizing that Rascal had not been driving a car, or had turned off the road, and so Rascal again took to the bushes and peed while the FBI searched every farmhouse, hen house, and outhouse.

Like bat from hell he rode dimension’s edge—
Too fast for sixth, too slow for heaven’s ledge;
The training center raised its bridge in haste,
But Rascal leaped beyond its closing wedge.

Rascal now rode more like a bat out of hell, going just fast enough to enter the 6th dimension, but not so fast as to enter the 7th, for that was Heaven and he wasn’t ready yet. He cut through a trail in the woods as shown on his map and could see the ninja training center just ahead; it was raising its drawbridge to close for the night. Rascal raced up the ramp, sailed through the air, and came down on the other side, coasting into the safety of the center.

At last within the safety of those walls,
Where diet cola blessed his protocol’s,
He savored sweet escape from those who sought
The Everything his knowledge still recalls.

A diet coke never tasted so good.
A hologram of Nobody appeared:
“None forgets the bike,” his wisdom shared.
“A pleasant walk,” sighed Rascal, spent and sore;
“Car’s front tires man, car’s back exhausted aired.”

“Welcome, Rascal,” said a holographic interference pattern of Ultimate Master Nobody, “No one ever forgets how to ride bike.”
“I would have preferred a pleasant walk down the road.”
“Definition of golf is: a pleasant walk ruined.”

Before the car, a man may weary grow—
The tire’s grip shall lay his vigor low;
Behind it, fumes shall drain his essence sweet;
Pursued by sedans swift, to hist’ry flow.

Such wisdom did the Master share that night,
When danger stalked and safety took to flight;
Six black cars hunting through the darkness deep
Made clear which path would lead toward morning’s light.

The message sent bore warning’s subtle jest:
Three fates for those who put the road to test;
Two paths to weariness, and one to death—
Choose well which way shall serve your journey best.

We knew the peril when we sent you forth,
As sedans prowled from south to east to north;
For some must tire, and some must lose their breath,
While others race through time for all they’re worth.

“No could have worked,” replied Nobody, in broken English, “Man who walk in front of car get tired; man who walk behind car get exhausted; man in car chased by six high speed sedans become history. We know danger when send message.”

“I walked a round of golf the other day,” added Rascal.

Through dreams of motorcycles Rascal slept,
Till morning when the Grand Master adept
Appeared, dissolved, emerged again to say:
“Welcome, Puff, whose mind must now be prepped.”
Rascal had a good sleep, dreaming of riding a motorcycle, and awoke the next day to begin further training.
A ninth degree Grand Master appeared and disappeared and reappeared. “Welcome to training center, Mr. Puff Rascal.”

“The drawbridge closure—was it meant to fright?”
“Just cheap thrill,” Master smiled into the night.
“Then take my peace of mind!” Rascal declared,
“And lose your own!” The Master: “Not quite right.”

“I am lucky to be here, Grand Master,” Rascal replied, “and the drawbridge; do you close at 4 AM?”
“We give you cheap thrill.”
“I’ll give you a piece of my mind and you will not have any peace in yours!”

“Close eyes and listen,” Master softly spoke,
“What hear you now?” as silence gently broke.
“The world pursues!” laughed Rascal. “Hear your heart?”
“It pounds like thunder!” came the swift rejoinder’s stroke.
“Tut-tut. Close eyes. What you hear?”
“I hear that the whole world is after me and the others.”
“Ha-ha, good joke. Now, seriously, hear you your own heartbeat?”
“Are you kidding? It’s still beating out of my chest!”

“What else?” “A grasshopper beside your feet.”
“And thermal dance?” “Thank god we cannot meet
Those vibrations with mortal human ears—
We’d surely go quite mad upon that beat!”

“Very good. What else you hear?”
“I hear the grasshopper at your feet.”
“Excellent. Can you hear thermal vibration?”
“Those are, luckily, just below the threshold of human hearing; we would go crazy if we heard those things.”

“Hear Toes a-questing?” “No.” “Then hear you void?”
“The cleaning lady’s gone,” Rascal employed
His wit. “And hearing aids?” “No STDs—
I never heed where a-holes are deployed!”
“We will teach you thermal method. Hear grass growing?”
“No, but I hear the lawnmower mowing.”
“Oh sorry, I stop them. Done. Now, hearest you sound of toes questing?”
“No.”
“Good, they run on, and no post readable. Hear vacuum?”
“No, the cleaning lady went home.”
“Ah, you catch on, you Rascal. Have you hearing aids?”
“No, I have no sexual transmittable diseases, for I never listen to a-holes.”

“One hand’s applause?” “A finger’s snap will do.”
“And Puff the dragon?” “Didn’t inhale through!”
“Of goats?” “No, but some seagulls Austin gave
In this verse here!” Their laughter echoed true.

“Fine, fine; you good candidate. Assume you not have visual aids for same reason. Can you hear the sound of one hand clapping?”
“Yes, if I snap my fingers.”
“Very good, sir Puff. Puff the magic dragon?”
“Yes, but I didn’t inhale.”
“Ha-ha and more ha, Ninja Puff. You superb. Have you heard of goats?”
“No, but I have a flock of seagulls that Austin just gave me in this paragraph.”

“Sun shining?” “All ears!” “Earth’s turning?” “Space
Turns too—they dance as partners, set to trace
Their mutual path.” “Why speak I thus compact?”
“Unnecessary words take needless place!”

“Fine answering, Puff-man. Hear the sun shining?”
“I’m all ears.”
“We teach you. But many places the sun not shine. Moon shine?”
“Alcohol dulls my senses.”
“Ah, good. Hear Earth turning?”
“Yes, and space, too.”
“Oh?”
“The Earth turns as much as space turns around it.”
“You wise man.”
“But hear you missing words?” the Master tried.
“Ah yes!” as understanding did provide
The lesson’s heart. Then Master winked and said:
“Deaf me, blind wife—we’re perfect side by side!”

“Why do you often leave out articles and other little words in your speech?”
“Unnecessary.”
“Maybe. Try adding a word or two.”
“You wise old man.”
“Never mind.”
“But you still hear the missing words, do you not, Grasshopper Puff?”
“Ah, yes; I see; that is part of the hearing test!”
“You no see. This hearing test. You are a good listener and of course I can speak perfect English, except in the UK.”
“Yes, once a lady in a hotel asked me for a lift and it didn’t go over very well when I lifted her up.
“Thank you, first degree ninja puffing rascal. Me, I am deaf and wife is blind; therefore we make perfect couple!”

At L.A., you will be whisked to a special charter jet that will take you to your final destination. After you land, a Hari-Krishna will give you a map at the airport. Look for the one with no hair; no, never mind; s/he will recognize you. Do not attend the feast that they will offer you, since it is just but a few sprigs of parsley. Although I cannot tell you where we are meeting, you will all have to rent motorcycles and endure an uphill climb up a mountain in first gear. Wear old shoes, a colorful tropical shirt, and some weird shorts, and try to act normal: to thy own selves please do not be true.

For ninja training must prepare us all,
Before the governments should heed our call;
The TOE we’ve found must stay secure and safe,
Till we convene behind our mountain wall.

Unsigned, this missive bears Nobody’s hand,
Questions post on ToeQuest’s distant strand;
The truth of cosmos waits within our grasp—
If only we can meet as we have planned.

Now, the inevitable is that all governments of the world will accidentally wise up and realize that we have the TOE and so I am sending you all to your local ninja training school for a week of instruction before your ‘vacation’.
unsigned,
nobody

P.S. Post any questions about the expedition on ToeQuest…

“Should Lincoln to his time now homeward go?”
Kirk asked, but Nobody was quick to show:
“He’s honest politics’ last standing man—
Let’s pit him ‘gainst fair Hillary’s campaign flow!”

“Shouldn’t we return Abraham Lincoln to his own time?” posted Mkirkpatrick.
“Not so fast; we’re thinking of running him against Hillary Clinton, for he’s now the only honest politician on Earth.”

“My Theory shirt proclaims that Thing is One:
Just Energy!” Kirk spoke, his words to run.
“My nothing’s no-thing,” Nobody replied,
While Austin claimed that food was all he’d done.
“Can I wear my new T-shirt about ‘The Theory of Thing’ that says ‘Forget Everything; There is Only One Thing: Energy’?” added Mkirkpatrick.
“That’s fine, but my none thing is no-thing.”
“Mine is food,” said Austin to Mkirkpatrick.

“Two parallel lines make my one thing true,”
Said MJA, as questions further grew;
Kirk asked of chairs made pure of energy,
“I sought a bigger part!” he then broke through.

“My one thing is two parallel lines,” said MJA.
“Can I bring my lounge chair that is made of energy?” asked Mkirkpatrick.
“Yes, but why do you have so many questions?”
“I asked Austin for a bigger part,” Michael answered.

“That energy you seek,” Profpat declared,
“I sit upon!” while Graybeard’s wisdom shared:
“Don’t let it slip away!” Nobody spoke:
“Our synergy will power all we’ve dared.”
“Michael Kirkpatrick,” said Profpat, “I’ve been looking all over for that energy and here I am sitting on it!”
“Well, try not to let any escape,” said Graybeard.
“OK guys,” said Nobody, “Our synergy will produce all the energy we need.”

“Where lies the punch line?” Michael dared to ask;
“Reality’s protection is our task—
No funeral of fun,” Nobody said,
Though ChickenMan’s egg jokes broke through the mask.

“Where’s the punch line?” asked Mkirkpatrick.
“The protection of the secret of reality is a serious undertaking, not a fun-eral,” answered Nobody. “Remember, the jokes are over.”
“What about egg jokes?” asked ChickenMan.
“The yolk is on you!”

“Of voids,” asked Fredrick, “where might they reside?”
“Nature abhors them,” Nobody replied,
“Save Profpat’s checks, which void themselves with time—
That much remains completely justified.”

“Is there a void anywhere?” asked Fredrick.
“I would avoid a void like the plague since Nature abhors a vacuum and since no void has coughed up or voided anything but a whole lot of goose eggs.”
“What about the void that Profpat wrote on a check?” continued Fredrick.
“That was unavoidable.”

“How shall I ride,” asked Rascal, “without fall?”
“Gyroscopic wheels shall guard you through it all.”
“But I’m Australian!” Graybeard did exclaim;
“My sympathies,” came Nobody’s dry call.

“How do I ride a motorcycle without falling over?” asked Rascal.
“I will give you one with gyroscopes front and back that look like wheels“
“But I live in Australia!” exclaimed Graybeard.
“My condolences.”

“Is Austin’s mountain hideaway our place?”
Asked Rascal, probing secrets face to face;
“No,” came reply, then: “Is that truth unveiled?”
“I ain’t not lying,” Nobody showed grace.

“Is this secret meeting place anything to do with Austin’s mountain top hideaway?” questioned Rascal.
“No.”
“Is your answer an untruth,” added Rascal, “for security purposes?”
“I ain’t not lying about nothing no way, no how, or nothing exists,” unanswered Nobody.

“Meanwhile,” he added, “lunch flows freely here,
For Profpat’s wisdom-trading scheme is clear:
A penny for their thoughts he gladly pays,
Then keeps the change when two cents’ worth appears!”

“Meanwhile,” added Nobody, “we’re serving free lunches for everyone and giving away a lot of other stuff, for Profpat has been giving people a penny for their thoughts and then keeping the change when they put in their two cents worth.”

The Eternal knows no point where it begins,
No gateway through which any design slips in;
Thus must it be the All-in-All that flows
As line by line or where all lines are twins.

What has no start must stretch through every way,
Through linear paths where moments mark their sway,
Or simultaneous in timeless dance—
For how else could the Boundless choose to play?

When entry points are nowhere to be found,
All possibilities must there abound:
As flowing stream, the instant’s flash of light,
The sequence, or the circle’s endless round.

Without a threshold where its being starts,
The Eternal must embrace all cosmic parts—
As time’s long river flowing ever on,
Or instant’s unity where difference parts.

Imagine Form as boundless ocean deep,
Where all potential does its secrets keep;
Our measured world, a single droplet drawn
From depths where countless possibilities sleep.

This scrutinized reality we know
Is but one pattern that the Forms bestow—
A crystal lifted from infinite seas
Of what could be, what might yet come to flow.

The abyss of Forms holds every dream untold,
Each possible shape that matter might unfold;
While we perceive one manifestation clear,
The endless pool holds mysteries yet to mold.

From vastness of the possible sublime,
We dredge one moment’s substance out of time;
Yet still beneath our certainties there swirls
The infinite from which all forms may climb.

Unsigned, this missive bears Nobody’s hand,
Questions post on ToeQuest’s distant strand;
The truth of cosmos waits within our grasp—
If only we can meet as we have planned.

Now, the inevitable is that all governments of the world will accidentally wise up and realize that we have the TOE and so I am sending you all to your local ninja training school for a week of instruction before your ‘vacation’.
unsigned,
nobody

P.S. Post any questions about the expedition on ToeQuest…

“Should Lincoln to his time now homeward go?”
Kirk asked, but Nobody was quick to show:
“He’s honest politics’ last standing man—
Let’s pit him ‘gainst fair Hillary’s campaign flow!”

“Shouldn’t we return Abraham Lincoln to his own time?” posted Mkirkpatrick.
“Not so fast; we’re thinking of running him against Hillary Clinton, for he’s now the only honest politician on Earth.”

“My Theory shirt proclaims that Thing is One:
Just Energy!” Kirk spoke, his words to run.
“My nothing’s no-thing,” Nobody replied,
While Austin claimed that food was all he’d done.
“Can I wear my new T-shirt about ‘The Theory of Thing’ that says ‘Forget Everything; There is Only One Thing: Energy’?” added Mkirkpatrick.
“That’s fine, but my none thing is no-thing.”
“Mine is food,” said Austin to Mkirkpatrick.

“Two parallel lines make my one thing true,”
Said MJA, as questions further grew;
Kirk asked of chairs made pure of energy,
“I sought a bigger part!” he then broke through.

“My one thing is two parallel lines,” said MJA.
“Can I bring my lounge chair that is made of energy?” asked Mkirkpatrick.
“Yes, but why do you have so many questions?”
“I asked Austin for a bigger part,” Michael answered.

“That energy you seek,” Profpat declared,
“I sit upon!” while Graybeard’s wisdom shared:
“Don’t let it slip away!” Nobody spoke:
“Our synergy will power all we’ve dared.”
“Michael Kirkpatrick,” said Profpat, “I’ve been looking all over for that energy and here I am sitting on it!”
“Well, try not to let any escape,” said Graybeard.
“OK guys,” said Nobody, “Our synergy will produce all the energy we need.”

“Where lies the punch line?” Michael dared to ask;
“Reality’s protection is our task—
No funeral of fun,” Nobody said,
Though ChickenMan’s egg jokes broke through the mask.

“Where’s the punch line?” asked Mkirkpatrick.
“The protection of the secret of reality is a serious undertaking, not a fun-eral,” answered Nobody. “Remember, the jokes are over.”
“What about egg jokes?” asked ChickenMan.
“The yolk is on you!”

“Of voids,” asked Fredrick, “where might they reside?”
“Nature abhors them,” Nobody replied,
“Save Profpat’s checks, which void themselves with time—
That much remains completely justified.”

“Is there a void anywhere?” asked Fredrick.
“I would avoid a void like the plague since Nature abhors a vacuum and since no void has coughed up or voided anything but a whole lot of goose eggs.”
“What about the void that Profpat wrote on a check?” continued Fredrick.
“That was unavoidable.”

“How shall I ride,” asked Rascal, “without fall?”
“Gyroscopic wheels shall guard you through it all.”
“But I’m Australian!” Graybeard did exclaim;
“My sympathies,” came Nobody’s dry call.

“How do I ride a motorcycle without falling over?” asked Rascal.
“I will give you one with gyroscopes front and back that look like wheels“
“But I live in Australia!” exclaimed Graybeard.
“My condolences.”

“Is Austin’s mountain hideaway our place?”
Asked Rascal, probing secrets face to face;
“No,” came reply, then: “Is that truth unveiled?”
“I ain’t not lying,” Nobody showed grace.

“Is this secret meeting place anything to do with Austin’s mountain top hideaway?” questioned Rascal.
“No.”
“Is your answer an untruth,” added Rascal, “for security purposes?”
“I ain’t not lying about nothing no way, no how, or nothing exists,” unanswered Nobody.

“Meanwhile,” he added, “lunch flows freely here,
For Profpat’s wisdom-trading scheme is clear:
A penny for their thoughts he gladly pays,
Then keeps the change when two cents’ worth appears!”

“Meanwhile,” added Nobody, “we’re serving free lunches for everyone and giving away a lot of other stuff, for Profpat has been giving people a penny for their thoughts and then keeping the change when they put in their two cents worth.”

The Eternal knows no point where it begins,
No gateway through which any design slips in;
Thus must it be the All-in-All that flows
As line by line or where all lines are twins.

What has no start must stretch through every way,
Through linear paths where moments mark their sway,
Or simultaneous in timeless dance—
For how else could the Boundless choose to play?

When entry points are nowhere to be found,
All possibilities must there abound:
As flowing stream, the instant’s flash of light,
The sequence, or the circle’s endless round.

Without a threshold where its being starts,
The Eternal must embrace all cosmic parts—
As time’s long river flowing ever on,
Or instant’s unity where difference parts.

Imagine Form as boundless ocean deep,
Where all potential does its secrets keep;
Our measured world, a single droplet drawn
From depths where countless possibilities sleep.

This scrutinized reality we know
Is but one pattern that the Forms bestow—
A crystal lifted from infinite seas
Of what could be, what might yet come to flow.

The abyss of Forms holds every dream untold,
Each possible shape that matter might unfold;
While we perceive one manifestation clear,
The endless pool holds mysteries yet to mold.

From vastness of the possible sublime,
We dredge one moment’s substance out of time;
Yet still beneath our certainties there swirls
The infinite from which all forms may climb.