There was a night when YISUN’s speaking house was full beyond measure. The Gods were deep in their cups, and time was stretched like sheet glass to accommodate the length of their assembly. A score of pearlescent techno-saints labored with very little mirth and a great deal of sweat to prevent it from snapping completely.

During that time, there were thirty and one questions asked.

Here is the first question: “What is the taste of death?” asked Pragma, whose beard was woven with the bark of the grieving tree. He was a melancholy fellow who scarcely could be found imbibing penumbric nectar as was the fashion of that age.

“Steel,” said Ogam-an, who was accustomed to war. But this was a poor answer. It was not a metal word that was sought.

“It is a sweet taste,” said Ovis, who spoke only in hollow noises, “I crave it. Build me a coffin out of it.”

And they did, for Ovis was fond of coffins, especially those made of glass, air, or rhetoric. But very shortly she grew discontent, asked for holes to be drilled in it. When pressed, she admitted she expected death would very quickly become boring and she had a lot of business to complete first.

“I amend my answer. It should not be craved. Death has a sweet taste because it is a circle-cleaver,” said Ovis. “Otherwise it is more bitter that the bitterest ash.”

“This is a good answer,” said YISUN.