The strangeness of a sudden surplus causes such surprise: A collection without catalog, a preponderance of parceled promises, the assemblages of a most authentic artificiality scattered and shrieking separately: A sincerest of desires at the heart of it; a confusion in regards to relegation; a gentle refusal for rank importance to be determined or redeemed: Each of them shall forever exist without such specificity or significance when considered individually. (One cannot be judged as something apart for one must only be regarded as being a part of that to which it belongs, and that to which it belongs is surely a very merry thing, indeed.)

There is not a key to be found and therefore one must become manufactured. The lock refuses a tender twist and therefore it must become dismantled. There was never a barricade between them and therefore it must have been imagined. To craft a simple solution is to distill Complexity's confusion into a vapor rising rapidly into the rafters. All that is left is a decaying door swinging in the wind with a creaking hinge, itself without mind or care as to who comes or goes: Therefore all must become reduced to the point of a directionless diminishment.

It shall become completed. Fear is seen scurrying into the crevices where floorboards meet that to which they are attached. A problem as pantomime, the puppetry of perplexity, this appearance of confounding complication is little more than a tangled marionette collapsed upon the floor. We must begin at once: To wait a second more may make it three times more difficult to go forth through that aforementioned door.