THE CHILD IS INSTRUCTED ABOUT BELIEF

"Belief, be it narrative or silent, is a thing maintained, if not generated, by neurons falling over themselves, day and night, infinitely in finite orbits, foundational but sometimes empty.

"My belief and your belief may orbit, for a time, empty or full, samewise or antiwise, in neurons and dialogue.

"In neurons and dialogue, belief engenders belief and disbelief; and sometimes anger, or passion, or warmth."

The child struggles to absorb these descriptions.

She does not feel like death--to the contrary, she vibrates at much too high a frequency. Her hum is rather a continuous shriek, piercing his ears. He wonders if she will shatter his orbits of belief; or if he has misunderstood or mixed metaphors. He feels his neurons tumble like lotto balls in a cylinder.

He asks what orbits they occupy, but decides their neurons form clouds instead. Like other children, he finds shapes in the clouds.

Searching for clouds in his own head, he repeatedly encounters the visage of his grandmother.

"Love may be accessed through poetry, or perhaps through physical acquaintance. Love is both a neural orbit and an autonomic reflex. ..."

The child grows disgusted with this manner of explanation.

He seeks less ridiculous definitions. But people outside seem unwilling to give him definitions of any sort.

Like many others, he decides to submerge himself more in the wide world, to see what lessons might be learned.

She chides the parents for failing to maintain the child at a sufficient level of abstraction, and dissolves them into their component constructs.

Having learned much in the wide world, he is not surprised to find, upon his return, that there is nothing, a simple void, behind the front door.