Drifting. Silence of the form, the mind, the being, the self. I am. Nothing has no weight. It has no feel. It has no taste, no sound. Nothing simply is. Black eyes open, but all that they see is Nothing. He (it") stirs, but there is no resistance to motion; Nothing touches it (him").

Nothing has no energy to drink. All matter is energy. All light is energy. All sound, all taste, all feel, are energy. Nothing came before the single polluting flaw of Energy became aware that it was, and propagated itself. Nothing has no sentience, to desire the abolition of Energy. Time has no grasp on Nothing. It IS. It can be ignored, but not even Nothing can destroy Nothing.

Balance exists only in the concept of the First Flaw. Should Energy burn itself out, then there will be Nothing. It is, of course, eventually inevitable. But the first concept of the First Flaw being survive, it does. Balance. Balance is a peculiar concept. Good" Evil" Kind" Cruel" They are abstracts. They are simple expressions of the use of Energy. Angelic" Demonic" They are one and the same, merely alterations on a single theme.

He (it") reaches, unfolding outward through Nothing, spread gossamer thin. The distance is Nothing, it is merely the perception which requires the effort. It (he") touches Something. The Energy of information shudders the essence of Self. Can Nothing and Something occupy the same space? Yes. In the nothing that is him (it.) rests the equation of Energy that forms a single feather. Without the equation of light, there is no equation for color. It (he.) absorbs that wisp of Energy, and remembers.

The form is already determined, by the simple measure of commonality and stereotype. Pale skin, black hair, black feathers to drink the light. A form not yet matured, to be altered and develop with experience. The eyes and gender were not a conscious choice, but a reflexive one. Battered by the impression of knowledge on virgin sentience, wondering in the concept of learning, it (he.) chooses a where.

Sensation is a peculiar thing. To the newborn babe, there is already a connection between sensation and translation. To the newly formed flesh, there is no such connection. The ground is cold, and gritty against bare skin. It was felt, without being understood. Virgin eyes open, to stare into darkness they had not been designed to penetrate, at the blindingly glorious brilliance of a luminous square. The shock of sudden immersion in Energy, of sensations he (it.) hasn't the instincts to comprehend, tears a birthing cry from its (his.) throat. The concept of sound, and of hearing, shocks him (it.) silent again.

Knowledge explodes across his awareness, impressed into Sentience and triggered by experience. Language reels him, gender barely impinges on his notice. He is a he. It is an unimportant facet of the Being. Crouched upon the icy dirt he trembles, sorting and storing the excess of knowledge, still staring at the square of light he does not yet understand is a window. The silhouette of a head and shoulders appear, sound pounding at him in a scratchy, tired old voice, though the Energy form can't see him in the darkness without.

Words pummel him, as the old man speaks. The shutters slam shut, leaving him without the spilt light, and he wonders. Sorting them carefully, he fits concept to sound. From the careless words of an old man is born a name. A first, if not correct name.