Quoted By:
You love the universe and it loves you, and you love you. You, not-real, Bug Man, are woven tightly into it: on a grand scale, indistinguishable from a rock on the ground, and as important and meaningful as one. Which is to say: hugely, deeply meaningful. You matter. Everything matters. If you weren't made of ocean, you might cry.
Later you may use words like "high as balls" and "embarrassing" and "goddamn fish and goddamn Garvin and his goddamn secondhand pawn-shop shit." There will be plenty of time. You ought to enjoy this while it lasts, which won't be long— the rose, the apple. Change is inevitable. It's a change that your remains are sinking, rather than floating in place. It's a change that the ocean's bottom isn't the pond's bank: rather, it's a pool of infinite light. Later, you'll wonder what the fuck you were thinking, given the connotations. You will decide that you weren't. The truth is that you were, but not in the ways you'd like to be.
The light doesn't kill you: either you were dead already, or you're alive still. When you approach, the water shifts suddenly, closing around you, and yanks you through— and you find yourself enclosed in the giant watery fist of God. A god, that is. You think it's the one you saw before.
You experience no terror as the fist squeezes you, and no surprise when you reconstitute, body intact. The fist (the thumb is about as tall and broad as you are) then unrolls, lying flat, so you can sit atop the palm. You already know that you can't stand.
The god doesn't say anything. You don't say anything. You press your fingers through the god's skin and accidentally splash your whole hand in: the 'skin' is gelled water, the 'flesh' inside is liquid. You taste: salt.
It occurs to you that the god might not appreciate you tasting it. This is a clinical observation, with no anxiety attached, but you nevertheless stop tasting. You look up to see if the god is affected. It is not.
You are becoming aware that this is not how you normally are. You are glad about this, because you're fairly certain the regular you would be panicking. You feel sorry for the regular you, but you still love him. You'll have him back when it's calmer. The god is still there, its whirlpool eyes churning. Is it being polite? Should you speak first?
"Hello," you say.
No movement. No response out loud or in your head or in letters in the air. (You don't know how gods talk. You wish you believed in them a tad earlier.) You clear your throat, which turns into coughing all the water out of your throat. You are very wet. Does the god like that?
"Do you like it when people get really wet?" you say, in the interest of knowledge.
Nothing. You cross your legs, then uncross them. You pull off your shoes, then your wet socks, and set both aside. "Can you talk? Or communicate? Curl your fingers if you can..."
(2/3)
