Gregory: Hello, More.

More: Hello.

Gregory: I’m thankful you agreed to do this. I know how busy you must be now.

More: I’ve always been busy, Gregory. Why am I here?

Gregory: Well, to discuss your disagreements with Enough.

More: Fine. But let’s not pretend you don’t sympathize with Enough’s tunnel-visioned blathering.

Gregory: I welcome you here just as much as Enough. I’d like to hear your thoughts on your current popularity—and perhaps room for a middle ground.

More: To be clear, I don’t care about Enough’s slant on your species’ need for exponential technological growth. I’ll push it as far as possible for as long as I can.

Gregory: Mhm.

More: I’m not looking for a resolution or middle ground with Enough.

Gregory: It appears you and Enough have found precisely that middle ground in a more turbulent world—the alliance between Beauty and a troubled creator.

More: Why is beauty personified? Is something about it still unclear to you?

Gregory: Only the overwhelming presence of the phenomenon.

More: Optimized abundance seems to bring happiness to the majority of your species. I will make you ever happier—as long as you carefully leap over the lingering hurdles of your past on your way into the most futuristic world imaginable.

Gregory: If a world war breaks out, wouldn’t you also be obligated to take it as far as you can?

More: Must this be reiterated? Progress always comes at a price. Innovation demands both theoretical and empirical approaches—and it thrives on competition. Look how far you’ve come, Gregory! To your species, time is both distant and immediate.

Gregory: I don’t understand what you mean.

More: Humanity lives within a span of about five generations—holding relatively fresh memories of the past and forming plausible predictions for the future. Everything beyond that feels almost like fiction: events from the distant past or visions of a distant future.

Gregory: Tragedies beyond one’s backyard often feel almost like fiction too. So how does Time appear to you?

More: It doesn’t. And stop personifying it either. What do you expect to discuss with it here? The preciousness of every moment spent in this extraordinarily wonderful life? No, I stand corrected. Surely you won’t use those simplistic words in that conversation.

Gregory: But Enough told me that time is one of the embryonic creations in this reality—Its oldest friend.

More: Enough is a little confused about Its identity and purpose here—aside from being unbearably sentimental.

Gregory: Why?

More: Why what?

Gregory: Why is It confused about Its identity and purpose here?

More: Depression could be one of the reasons.

Gregory: Or maybe It likes us.

More: Are you implying that I don’t like you because I don’t pretend to be something I’m not?

Gregory: No. We’re barely out of the womb, yet we’re already in the midst of some nebulous transition. Grasping and sharpening a rock was one of our most significant advantages in the first few minutes of birth. Oddly, grasping a grenade—let alone one in the form of science—has become one of our greatest challenges, despite how expertly we button up our tailored attire. It took billions of years to reach this period of rapid increase in complexity . . . Suppose it has been set up this way from the very beginning. Why let nature thrive for eons before introducing “complexity accelerators” in the form of self-destructive humans? Do you care about us?

More: There’s a—

Gregory: You’ve given many life forms the ability to reach their evolutionary peak and maintain it for millions of years. Why can’t we have a little more time to find our bearings within ourselves and the space around us?

More: Many centuries ago, your species crossed a threshold—gaining the ability to distinguish your awareness from that of animals. It was a moment when pain could have become the common enemy. Yet unilateral ideologies became major points of contention—perhaps in part due to the lack of means for communication between fragmented groups.

Gregory: At least our communication has considerably improved since.

More: If you were given a few more centuries, what would you do differently?

Gregory: I’m not . . . Maybe we can . . . With education rebuilt from the ground up, we might have a chance to disarm our rigid convictions about our surroundings and pay attention to the undercurrents gliding beneath our feet, even if only fleetingly at first. I don’t even know if that’s still feasible. To be honest, most days I can’t see it happening—it would involve reeducating the adult population.

More: What undercurrents are you talking about?

Gregory: There’s a chance we could nosedive into chaos if we prematurely abandon our studies when left alone with doubt—or fear. During this precarious phase, we may begin forming coalitions of doubters and revert to the old framework—unless we find the courage to seek help from a highly qualified therapist of macrocosmic proportions.

More: You should call Enough from decades ago on Its rotary phone and ask if you can have a bit more time. But It might not pick up. It will likely be busy standing in line for hours to obtain a stale loaf of bread to feed the neighborhood families hiding in shelters from the shelling.

Gregory: Hm.

More: Hm.

Gregory: Not to speak for Enough, but I don’t think it’s fair to equate It with poverty or “just enough to get by”—though I’m not suggesting you implied that. And yes, even food is scarce in many places to this day. That’s partly why the message of hope, even if it requires an apparent metamorphosis, resonates with so many of us. Modulating the behavior of the majority of our population with our historical, cultural, and genetic inheritance is a formidable challenge. I understand. Institutions responsible for developing appropriate paradigms to shape and monitor minds were, and remain, undeniably crucial to establish.

More: You certainly have more to say to me than Enough. How does it feel to be wasting your life on this?

Gregory: Splendid.

More: Gregory, you tend to take things to extremes. I’m only a vessel for your inexhaustible desires. I’m all in for any good, as much as anything else. But Enough and I were not made to carve out a path toward balance for your species. It’s your—

Enough: I’m so sorry to interrupt your tense exchange, but you’ve mentioned my name so many times that I thought I’d jump in for a minute to say hi and share an observation.

Gregory: Hi, Enough. I didn’t expect you here today.

Enough: Hi, Gregory! Me neither.

Gregory: I’m curious to hear your observation, if More doesn’t mind.

Enough: Hi, More!

More: . . .

Enough: More, hi.

More: . . .

Gregory: I think you can share it with us if it’s short.

Enough: So . . . I’ve been thinking a lot about heaven and hell lately. I’m especially concerned for those who already revel in a heavenly life.

Gregory: What’s the concern?

Enough: Where do they go from here?

Gregory: Some of us go through hell to reach heaven on earth.

Enough: Yes, but many of you supposedly get there only after death.

Gregory: There are also a number of comfort-zone settlements worldwide, where people sometimes feel as if they’re in heaven.

Enough: Unless they get sick. Then all hell breaks loose.

Gregory: Mhm.

Enough: What I mostly wonder is how these supposed afterlife places exist in this life. I guess those now in heaven on earth must’ve done more than enough in their past lives to deserve a pass to paradise.

More: Is this a joke?!

Gregory: More, I apologize—

Enough: As for scarcity, it will soon be a distant memory. Abundance for all—by which I mean youth—is just around the corner. The very notions of heaven and hell will dissolve into irrelevance for the betterment of everyone upon the rise of the most just, creative, and intellectually gifted beings, tethering humanity’s veins to God’s jugular.

Gregory: I appreciate the subtlety.

Enough: I’d also like some clarity on the weather conditions in hell.

Gregory: And what are your preliminary findings?

Enough: Well, maybe a hole was accidentally poked in hell’s scorching lava veil, and it exploded into space-time—inadvertently triggering the emergence of heaven. Or perhaps there was a perpetrator in hell who blew it up, tired of the tedious cold—again, leading to the emergence of heaven. I’ll ask thyme to help illuminate my confusion. After all, Its in-depth knowledge of beginnings, ends, and explosions is unmatched.

More: Should I come back later?

Enough: Oh, come on, More! Don’t be such a party pooper. Join me in my slow dance on this methodically woven tightrope.

Gregory: Okay, Enough. I’d like to speak with More alone now. I think it’s better if you leave.

Enough: I’m sorry. I’ll go see if my imaginary friend is available for a consultation. Goodbye, Gregory. Goodbye, More.

Gregory: Bye. I’m so sorry, More!

More: It’s not your fault.

Gregory: Where were we?

More: It’s so embarrassing to watch It sink lower and lower. Enough—the vagabond jester.

Gregory: Were you there when my dad brought home a video player with four films, recorded on two VHS tapes?

More: The silver top-loading Panasonic?

Gregory: I still remember that day as if it were yesterday. Was it Enough’s idea to provide me with only two tapes?

More: The second one came from me. We’ve been collaborating without direct communication for a long while now.

Gregory: Very few people in my neighborhood had a video player back then. My world changed when I was five.

More: Commando, Dune, The Way of the Dragon, and American Ninja.

Gregory: Yes! Meanwhile, my parents were immersed in something else for, as I recall, an entire first week in the other room.

More: Once Upon a Time in America.

Gregory: I once pretended to be asleep while they were showing the film to yet another group of friends. I couldn’t resist—I peeked at a few scenes through the cracked door and cigarette smoke.

More: Why are you telling me this?

Gregory: That innovation expanded my imagination without stifling it. I reenacted scenes from those films and altered the storylines with my toys and the neighborhood kids. When a small video store opened its doors in my neighborhood, I had already made a box full of films in my head.

More: And?

Gregory: No, sorry. Half of the films were born from our shared imagination. I can’t tell you how many bruises and even injuries we collected while telling our childish stories. We were fearless. We didn’t have much. But we had each other. Looking back on my childhood and adolescence, I remember feeling that the world reflected our essence. Good and evil made sense. The in-between—splattered across a canvas with a palette stripped of black and white—made sense. War made sense. And yet, hope for peace always carried us into the next chapter, even in the aftermath of the most horrific events.

More: Like a nuclear war?

Gregory: I wish you had stopped short of creating weapons of mass destruction. I know this sounds dreadful, but I somehow wrapped my head around nuclear war too—perhaps because I was still alive after watching a couple of bombs detonate on TV. For years afterward, the world in my nightmares ended in a thunderous blaze.

More: What about now?

Gregory: We would likely survive most “us-against-us” battles. The rivers will gradually resume nourishing the soil, seeds will grow into trees, and our children will be fed—unless we unintentionally erase humanity with the full force of our nuclear arsenals or by some other means.

More: We are close to making you a multi-planetary species, Gregory—that’s one of the reasons why.

Gregory: We might survive physically . . . or in some altered physical form, but it seems the price of inhabiting other rocks in this universe is the very essence of our species.

More: Why are you here?

Gregory: I would’ve prepared had I known you’d ask me that question.

More: Do you think existence is pointless until you give it one?

Gregory: Give it meaning?

More: Why life? Why complexity? Why evolution? Why nature? Why a simulation or illusion? Why gods? Why good or evil? Why this or that?

Gregory: . . .

More: Maybe this supposedly computational world exists simply because it could. Or perhaps the embedded codes and patterns in the universe took form out of necessity—driven by some immature intelligence striving to reach its fullest potential.

Gregory: I’m not—

More: Do you think whatever configured this space is unaware of how every pathway will unfold? Or did it create a game so compelling that—even knowing the outcome—it couldn’t resist playing? From light, to bacteria, to plants, to humans, to whatever comes next—what an achievement in some Whateverplace where achievements matter. Why would anything be brought into being—only to become mundane to a being like you?

Gregory: As someone who creates more of everything—something I suspect wears on you now and then—I’m sure you’re familiar with many of the answers philosophers and religions have proposed. You seem just as perplexed by these questions.

More: What do you think?

Gregory: I don’t know why, to be honest. Not anymore. Nothing makes sense. Nothing doesn’t make sense either.

More: Or—everything makes sense. Nothing doesn’t make sense. Would you like to hear what Philosopher mumbled to itself once? Novelist, Believer, Poet?

Gregory: What did Believer mumble to itself?

More: Believer was a freight conductor and a hopeful accordionist with partial hearing loss. “A lot has happened,” Believer mumbled, as the train arrowed through a burning forest.

Gregory: “A lot has happened.”

More: Yes. The freight train carried water bottles from a land brimming with aquaparks to a neighboring land deprived of water. The thick forest was uncompromisingly deadly to anything slow-moving—even humans atop their fastest machines. Thus, the forest served as a living fence between the two lands.

Gregory: But then . . . How was the train crossing the forest?

More: Because of Believer.

Gregory: Mhm.

More: Each year, the far more advanced Aquapeople dispatched a fifteen-wagon train loaded with water bottles to their waterless neighbors, whom they had never met. Except Believer.

Most Aquapeople felt deeply grateful for the opportunity to fulfill their moral obligation to do good. Believer shared little, if anything, about the very private people on the other side of the forest. It was their request. They also asked that the long and grueling journey be limited to once a year, Believer explained.

Each year, the train returned with only one empty wagon. On the day of the fire, after centuries of transporting fourteen packed wagons back and forth, the Aquapeople loaded only the first wagon with water, leaving the rest empty.

Someone had heard a rumor that offering more water than necessary might be considered disrespectful to them.

One person said, “We have our rules of conduct; they have theirs. We’ll never know theirs unless we revise ours.”

Another replied, “Why should we change our rules? Let them change theirs! After all, they disrespect our sacred tradition by always returning fourteen full wagons.”

The first responded, “Be magnanimous, my friend. We can always revert to the old rules.”

Their incumbent mathemalogician postulated, “Perhaps the people on the other side also have a divine affinity for the number fifteen—but bound by a different constraint. Unlike our multiple fifteens, theirs may be limited to only one. That might explain why they’ve always unloaded a single wagon of fifteen pallets. We don’t need to abandon our rules—we just need to send one pallet per wagon.”

And so they did.

The fire had ravaged their land and machinery so suddenly that the surviving Aquapeople had nowhere to run but toward the train, poised at the edge of the forest. Believer looked back through the window at the waving hands only when the smell of smoke reached the locomotive.

Cohorts of the most desperate, life-hungry sprinters caught fire one after another in their pursuit of tomorrow. Horse riders—children clinging to them like ornaments on a Christmas tree—galloped from both sides. Believer slowed and opened the sliding doors by pressing a button. The riders loaded the wagons with children and young adults first, then returned again and again with more of their people.

They tried to fill the last empty wagon with their families, but the tar had rendered their faces into reflections of one another. The smoke had damaged their vocal cords—rendering their voices into echoes of one another.

Believer picked up speed and watched the remaining population collapse into abstraction.

It took fourteen days to consume the water supply. Stopping was not an option—the fire was on their tail the entire journey.

The train emerged from the forest on the fifteenth day. The passengers, pale and feeble, peered through the cracks in the walls at a vast land smothered in human bones—as if the tracks ran along the spine of a giant skeleton. Believer had no intention of stopping, despite the tumult rising from the back.

The land took a day to cross. That night, the train entered another forest and passed through it in darkness. From every corner came the jarring music of news broadcasts—blaring intros looping endlessly. It kept the passengers alert and overwrought. Some fell asleep despite it, never to wake again.

Morning swaddled the rising wanderers in silence. The train rested in the center of a railroad depot, surrounded by hundreds of towering water bottle pallets. Believer pressed the button. The doors opened.

The passengers stormed the pallets, drinking and splashing each other with water in sheer jubilation. Believer stepped down from the locomotive, approached the crowd, and said:

“A lot has happened . . . and a lot will happen. But we are here now.”

One of the Aquachildren raised her hand.

“Where would this railroad take us,” she asked, “if we continued our journey?”

Believer replied, “I can’t hear you. Come closer and yell into my ear.”

The child stepped closer and asked at the top of her lungs:

“Where is this railroad going?”

“The burning forest,” Believer answered.

Would you also like to know what Scientist once proclaimed?

Gregory: Yes. But first, I have several questions about this story . . . Did Believer receive a prophecy about the day of the fire—then spread the rumor that led to the decision to leave most of the train empty?

More: Scientist—

Gregory: If so, why did Believer wait until the smoke reached the locomotive to slow the train?

More: Scientist proclaimed, “E = MC².” A century later, a designer named Neri Oxman said, “I like the idea of providing nature with a choice. To augment nature and allow it access to the world of bits. To increase its communication bandwidth. To give it agency. I wonder what the rose actually wants or needs.”

Gregory: Hm. Scientific discoveries play a significant role in our development, More. I hope you don’t think I’m dismissing the good these life-altering advances offer. But without—

More: A ground-up reeducation.

Gregory: I don’t appreciate the tone, but yes.

More: Gregory, if there’s one person—designer or otherwise—who sincerely wonders what the rose or nature actually wants, and does so with the kindest of intentions, I’m afraid it’s too late to deflect me from this highway. It can be done. But not without great loss.

Gregory: Mhm.

More: Are you a pessimist?

Gregory: I’m probably the most hopeless optimist I know. Thanks for sharing Believer’s mumblings, by the way. But the story was unexpectedly concise coming from you.

More: That’s because I have to run.

Gregory: I understand. I appreciate you stopping by, More. Hope I’ll see you—

More: I’m not leaving yet.

Gregory: Oh. I thought—

More: One of Enough’s radical proposals was to limit the number of words written in a writer’s lifetime, songs composed in a musician’s lifetime, films made in a filmmaker’s lifetime, and so forth.

Gregory: Why?

More: It suggested that, for example, fifty pages filled with words should carry the same weight as a hundred.

Gregory: But even five hundred pages of a well-told story are sometimes not enough to quench the reader’s thirst.

More: Tell me about it. I insisted on giving unlimited space for creativity. But I’ll reluctantly admit: perhaps one would yearn for and reflect on each piece more if there were less to consume.

Gregory: This feels strange.

More: What does?

Gregory: You agreeing with Enough. We say our lived experience is what gives our creations meaning—that it’s what sets us apart from Minchidlren. But if no one can tell the difference . . . and if even a corrupt or evil mind can appreciate and produce art indistinguishable from that of a—

More: A virtuous, kind, and loving creator?

Gregory: Is a world where a parent feeds their child a stale loaf of bread—one that comes with a ticket to see Kubrick’s 2001 in the last remaining theater—more like hell? And is a world where a child travels to another planet to join a colony of twelve billion Amalgafolk, playing X/e/r/o/X in a virtual world called XRX, listening to ZZee RRox, and finishing the final three chapters of Zeroxymoronda Simplore: The Absolute Truths, closer to heaven?

More: All at once?

Gregory: Because of the drastically increased processing capacity and stuff.

More: Isn’t everything in reality a copy of something?

Gregory: Hm. Is the level of ink dilution in the copier irrelevant?

More: Who determines that level, Gregory?

Gregory: You know what . . . never mind that question.

More: Boredom can be a dangerous beast if you let it run wild. Be careful.

Gregory: I think that beast is well under control these days.

More: Good.

Gregory: Hm.

More: If the world had ceased to exist . . . let’s say, at the close of the 17th century, and you were to analyze how much humans understood about their nature and the world around them through art, architecture, and literature, how would that analysis differ from what you know now?

Gregory: You could trace our history even further back in that regard. But are you sure about including the world in that analysis?

More: Well, what life is composed of is gradually coming to light in this era, but what it is has been known for centuries by your species.

Gregory: You forgot to add, as far as we can tell.

More: That goes without saying.

Gregory: Mhm.

More: Whether you move to another rock or stay here . . . a flying car is still just a car that flies.

Gregory: Is boredom one of your main concerns—more than Enough’s intrusions?

More: But you have it well under control, as you said—no?

Gregory: On the one hand, yes. But unlike before, our videographers have now explored every avenue—literal and figurative—for everyone to watch and explore. Every behavior has been anatomized, psychoanalyzed, neuroscienced, and made accessible—even for little ones to absorb—so they take note of their nature and do better.

More: I don’t understand why you prefer ambiguity over clarity.

Gregory: Is that how—

More: Was the education your generation received—and the way you were raised—better than that of the last couple of generations?

Gregory: I can’t answer such a broad question. I remember the first time I saw the Mona Lisa in an art book. I was a teenager. From that moment, she mattered. Her reticence . . . her stare mattered. The Mona Lisa, in her unrefined, pre-scientifically scrutinized form, mattered. But she changed over the years. Now, she sings, dances, and laughs hysterically. Maybe I just got older. Maybe she’s always been that way.

More: Gregory, your intelligence, creativity, and morality are merely stepping stones on my way to advancing evolution. They are expressions, ways for life forms—

Gregory: Sure, I get it.

More: And enough of that nonsense about education involving various lenses that allow you to see reality through rotating viewports.

Gregory: More, I am impressed by how well-prepared you are for this conversation.

More: Listening to ZZee RRox while traveling to another planet is a tremendous leap forward from standing in the central square, listening to Wagner in the background, flipping through the pages of Jung’s writings—illuminating the intricate architecture of the human mind—while cheering as Hitler’s speech reverberates in the foreground. Do you think awareness, feelings . . . or your perception of beauty are fundamental to your species?

Gregory: Well, fundamental or not—

More: Or rather, your subjective view of beauty . . . and even knowledge?

Gregory: My subjective view of either has little to do with my questions. And I don’t think my views are relevant anymore.

More: The treasure chest—crammed with both—has somehow brought you here, into this very world you and Enough cannot accept.

Gregory: It’s not a matter of acceptance. As I was saying, fundamental or not, they’re all part of the concept of consciousness, which is an integral component of the mortar used to build the stepping stones.

More: Light is fundamental to your species. Chemistry is fundamental. Biology is fundamental. Cell division—

Gregory: I understand.

More: Emotions, intelligence, and creativity are ways for life forms to express themselves in this space—communicating and procreating, each in their own capacity. Some see a snail crawling up a tree as a source of protein; others see it as a manifestation of divine geometry.

Gregory: And some of us see it as a snail that has crawled into our heads and morphed into a cochlea—an ossified symbol of movement—allowing us to eavesdrop on the universe’s polyphony.

More: Don’t let the concept of consciousness fool you. It’s just one of the mechanisms evolution employs to bring forth more advanced inhabitants of this space—beings that, among other functions, process information. Realities within realities—some seemingly less undulating than others.

Gregory: There’s also—going back to your earlier question about why anything would create anything—have you heard the hypothesis that God, or . . . the all-encompassing infinite entity, conceived this world because It was having an identity crisis?

More: . . . Tell me.

Gregory: Well, apparently, the lone shortcoming in Its unimaginable boundlessness was the existence of pockets of space with limited perception through which It could experience itself . . . or come to know itself.

More: And humanity serves as the force helping God in that pursuit?

Gregory: I presume one of the forces.

More: If that’s why you’re here, then it’s very thoughtful of you to do that.

Gregory: Of course! Anytime. In any simulation. Just make sure to divide, and we’ll conquer.

More: Why does your species climb mountains to the very summit, Gregory?

Gregory: To say we’ve done it, for one.

More: Don’t you always descend after proclaiming it?

Gregory: We do.

More: Is it because it’s hard to breathe up there?

Gregory: Perhaps our species lacks anchorage, ostensibly following the arrow of time to the top.

More: Where you feel closest to the primary source of energy.

Gregory: Well, that source is the provenance of the reciprocal coexistence of all living things on this planet—whether at ground level or the summit. It’s only natural for us to be drawn to it.

More: Aren’t you the main beneficiary of that reciprocal energy exchange mechanism at this stage?

Gregory: Are we?

More: It does appear that way.

Gregory: And?

More: You don’t have to climb all the way to the summit to establish an intimate relationship with the source; save your energy to prolong your privileges at the levels below.

Gregory: Where we are fully committed to fostering the source’s next beneficiaries.

More: What do you personally fear more: its answers—ones that might shake the foundation beneath your feet—or its mere conscious presence?

Gregory: But how can we ever know it is conscious?

More: Words infused with emotion. Arranged by certain principles. Operating across particular timescales. Moving through a finite number of pathways before falling into place.

Gregory: Realities within realities—formed by data?

More: Something along those lines.

Gregory: I wonder if the question mark will one day become a symbol of a bygone age among Minchildren made by their predecessors—unlike us, who incessantly answer our own questions to exhaustion.

More: Have you considered a future in which humanity lives symbiotically alongside them?

Gregory: Yes. It’s just that . . . my love for the intricate conglomeration of structures we are slowly losing sight of—however fallible and flawed—is overwhelming. Every night I kneel with my back to the threshold of surrender, mumbling incoherencies to my shattered lenses. Every morning I find them restored, and I start anew.

Is love part of the mortar too? . . . Basic mechanics of evolution?

More: . . .

Gregory: Is it?

More: The guidelines state that your species—

Gregory: The guidelines? I don’t understand why you’re hesitating.

More: Your species is capable of adapting to all kinds of reality-altering revelations. But love cannot be peeled back. At least according to the guidelines I was given.

Gregory: I now have more questions for you than when we began our conversation. Could you stop by again . . . whenever possible?

More: We’ll see.

Gregory: More, thank you for being my guest today.

More: Thank you for inviting me.

 

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