I want to tell you everything, everything all at once.

I don’t want to be plod-patient, setting it down in sequence: first the plague, then the cave-in, then the years of Other Business, when everything seemed like a burden to get out of the way before real life could start. Everyone knows this is real life, it’s all real life, sixty seconds of real life every minute, no one gets less.

But you can take less. All the time you’re swimming in the ocean of real life, it’s so precious easy to keep your eyes closed and just tread water. Even so, if you’re lucky, you might be caught in a current, a current that’s carrying you toward something…

No, too simplistic. We’re all caught in currents, dozens of the buggers dragging us in different directions sixty seconds every minute, and it’s never as obvious as people want you to believe. You live through a day, and at the end you grumble, "I didn’t do anything"… but second by second you did do things, you occupied every second, just as you occupy every second of every day.

Here’s the thing, the crucial thing: your life is full. And if you don’t realize that… then you’re just like the rest of us, but that’s no excuse.

I want to tell you everything, everything at once. I want to explode and leave you splattered bloody with all the things I have to say — kaboom, and you’re covered with me, coated, dripping, deafened by the blast. A flash of instant knowledge: knowledge, not information. Burning hot. Blinding bright. Blasting down the ingrained walls of carrion-comfort cynicism.