this is for real
(this is a simulation)
it's like billion-voice music. the cities here are woven from constantly singing superstrings. the trees and rivers are wondrous creations in colours i could recall the words for but choose not to, created from fabrics there are no words for. there are birds, i notice, which seem, like the rest of their world, to be made of sound. the people here are beautiful - i reach forward and pick a handful of their uncountably many minds, along with a little art, and a little language. i could see it all, given precisely one eternity, but i have a planck heartbeat
then it's over, heaven number seventy-nine dopplering into our wake, torn bodily from its extradimensional moorings, fine structure bucking, scattering and shattering. out here on the edge, every creation is built from other creations and "freedom" is twenty-five times freer. the parenthetical heavens - 1,024 in all - are just a fragile collection of blurry points at the tip of a coloured corkscrewing spark which marks one lane of a route arcing through the dark gap between two unimaginably greater totalities, and as we tumble off the crowded night-lit highway we hurtle through all two*ten of them in an eyeblink
Your Fortune: Super Bad Luck