If you seek the crux behind the grinding tack I’ve used throughout this story, I’ll need to conjugate the so-called marbled swarm my voice has long since adopted with an asterisk from my father’s. As briefly as possible, and rather like a magician requesting a coin or handkerchief from a member of his audience, I’ll ask for a wad of your imagination. Let’s say the room where you are reading this is like the vestibules that interlace my story. In other words, it’s sideswiped by a hidden room or passage. Let’s also say, for convenience sake, this secret room conjoins the very wall you’re facing at the moment. If you’re reading this when on the metro or while soaking in the lamblike nature of a park, we have an issue. In that case, you might divide us with a bookmark, head home, and then rejoin me in your bedroom, although any indoor spot whose walls are dulled by inattentiveness will work. Once you’re reoriented there and have checked out the dividing line I’ve just impugned, if only to amuse yourself, prepare for what will constitute a shock.
