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with some type of crystal—possibly the same crystal that
was merged with the statues in the lake. The ceiling rose into
complete darkness, and the walls of shelving were lined with
delicate silver catwalks, made for whatever custodian might
see to the needs of the tattered tomes. The contrast between
the condition of the journals and that of the facility meant
to preserve them was pronounced. A metaphor, perhaps. I
moved to a nearby shelf and selected a random digest. This
was not my first “secret library,” so I remained vigilant as I
thumbed through it.

***

The Journal of Doctor Timothy Jeremias
I must pick my words carefully, for words will carry you
along with me, and I will have witnesses to my visions—
validation. One word out of place, and your experience is
but a permutation of my own—a dream of my certainty
rather than the waking truth of my subject. Should I deploy a
phrase that confuses, you may approximate its meaning, and
Alice from Wonderland will fall down a rabbit hole only to
emerge from the tail of a tornado, dressed in ruby slippers
and stinking of poppies. Words will deliver us. Trust me.
This journal is held in the near unshakable grip of science—
the consensus of old men dreaming of Fields Medals and
Nobel Prizes. It will not soon change or be caught unawares
by agents of spontaneous combustion or etheric cross winds.
It is Custer in the face of Crazy Horse. True enough, my
journal must eventually yield to the mounting entropy of
molecular friction and God’s good planning, but for now it
is peer-reviewed science—proof against the bogyman. But
make no mistake—this journal is a nexus of contest, where
Schrödinger’s cat rears up against the darkly portentous grin
of the purple-striped Cheshire cat, fading . . .

304 | Mark Anzalone