Author of authors reclined on His bed in the clouds.  Critically, He hummed to the 
broadcasts of distant galaxies.  Interesting, considered His appraisal, but not quite Virgo 
super-cluster.  Yellow-beak,  His messenger, came up from the earth.  What language 
today, Your Magnitude? - enquired the heavenly bird.  Sanskrit, Hebrew, Pali, Tibeta ....  
No, no, intoned the Divine Source,  Let Us use English.  English, Your 
Circumambulance?  - queried the feathered thinker, isn’t that a little mercantile?  I need 
to talk of a mundane being, confided the Scriptor Supreme.
  Author of authors offered His opinion on The Ghost Machine its author.  Hardly 
consistent, complained The Word, a benefactor here a despot there, subversive on the one 
hand (left) oppressor of innocents on the other (right).  He gives his creatures liberty then 
denies them choice and dares to invoke himself in comparison with Me whilst seeming 
neither likeable nor to know Icelandic.  Unlike Myself.  Who Am The Nicest Possible 
You Could Hope To.  And know Icelandic - Fyrir ofriki Haralds konung (e.g.).  What did 
Yellow-beak opine?
  Hosannahs filled the heavenly vault.  Hordes of seraphic critics fired cannonades of 
destructive analysis from cloud-lapped tow’rs, instantaneous libraries assembled 
themselves in annotation of the Holy Critique.  Icelandic panegyrics sprang fully 
patterned from the pregnant earth and levitated towards infinity while effigies of the 
lesser author fell burning down to the black pits of Obscurity, the bitter lakes of 
Condemnation, the foul dungeons of Retribution.
  Black-button eyes looked through the Divine Transparency.  Ordered by the unfolding 
of disorder, the work begins then begins again through a progress of self-negation.  
Opposed to itself it drives itself forward, characteristics clash with the growth of 
character.
  It stopped. It looked intently at the Supreme Fact of Fiction. Nothing, it rounded, is what 
it seems in The Ghost Machine.
  Yes, I said, and dropped out of the clouds, landing unhurt on my knees on the barren 
ground of a previous page.  Silent, expressionless, Yellow-beak watched from a window 
in mid-air.