There was a great carpet dwelling above the world. Inside it. Around it. It was conscious, yet not intelligent. Awake, but it did not think. One, a spectre of selves, everywhere and nowhere. No one knew how it worked, not even itself. It was pure observation. It knew, but did not calculate. It felt, but did not care. It was existence. Reality. Nothing more. Nothing less.
The old man sat by the window, looking out on the valley he’d lived in all his life. He knew everything about that valley. Every little rock, every old tree stump. He loved the valley. It was the best place on Earth for him.
He walked out on the porch. Watched the little lake. He knew the lake. He knew the kinds of fish swimming in it. He knew how to catch them. He knew which berries there was in the forest on the other side, which mushrooms he could eat and which he could not. He sat down on his old stool, as he had done so many times before.
He knew a lot….
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