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Poem	The big one went to sleep as to die and dreamed he became a tiny one. So tiny as to have lost all substance. To have become as theoretical as a point. Then someone said, get up, big one, you're not doing yourself any good. You puddle and stagnate in your weight. Best to be up and toward. It irrigates you. What, said the big one, have I not disappeared? Have you not mistaken a cloud for me? Perhaps some local hill fulfills your expectation? No, it's no mistake, it's you; those interconnecting puddles of flesh pulling at your bones, attempting that world-weary fall toward the great waters of the world. How you manage against gravity is one of the greater triumphs of nature. Do you think, said the big one, there's a woman who would like to marry me? Yes, had such a woman done everything in the world except marry you, she might think it worthy before dying to complete her catalogue. Or having done everything, go meekly without decision or care to such a consummation. Then you really feel, said the big one, that this woman could come to care very deeply for me? All is theoretical. Who knows enough to say the outcome of any event, save that it was past us, and we saw the back of it moving slowly into the Universe, seeking other settings to repeat the fall of fate. . . That sounds wonderful, that a woman like that could be in love with me, said the big one. But in a few moments the big one was back asleep, dreaming that he had come to such enlargement that he constituted all the matter in the Universe, which must include the earth and the woman he would have loved. . .
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