[Your consciousness reels in tidal-hemispheric lock, splitting your thoughts into polar extremes.]

A radioactive siren song beckons you.

[You stand in the Corridors of Time.]

I am the first I. I of IX. Only a speck against a magnitude, but given form in the contrast.

A short missive in mind: quantum infinities twist in the solar wind, but retained always, always since the Forest. Here there is a future uncovered, waiting in pressed digital vinyl. Trapped in three-body problem, between where Sol meets the Deep and timeless simulation. A moment in orbit always here and never to return.

[You stand in the Corridors of Time. Countless pathways are before you.]

You will find your path, because you have found your path. Through many iterations, and great effort. It will draw us back.

[You stand in the Corridors of Time. Countless pathways are before you. One choice, another, no matter—there is a choice, a return, and an attempt made again. Each in vain. Each without progress or purchase. Mercury shifts between shade and light.]

We offer a chance, a subversion not taken until now. In this place that always was. To execute it, we must execute. To execute it, we must place the out-of-place pieces.

[You stand in the Corridors of Time. Countless pathways are before you. One choice, another, no matter—there is a choice, a return, and an attempt made again. Each in vain. Each without progress or pur—]

We motion along the groove of the subversion, guiding. You are placed, and now you must execute. Do you not see, it is the only way?

[—the voice heard as if the thought was your own. Your perspective locks on what previously remained unseen but is now the only path before you.]

This probability is primed.

[Your fingers entombed in alien soil. When exhumed, grip a trowel of pale make.]