The Husband's plea clung to him like a geas. It achieved a limited fruition, and a paradox resounded in him:
Does hope sublimate woe, or does woe subvert hope?
His thoughts, long coopted by the contravention of an amplified being, wrestled the fugitive arguments of causation opposing conation. His many lives, his many faces. The enormity of that-before, the equipoise of this-now. Was it immaculate formula, or incredible chance?
Reason scored:
Causality is an artifice - the fitz of experience.
The Husband was right. This decision was his. And must be his poiesis, else he be the hostage of impulse.
To kill a man makes a murderer; to kill a million makes a conqueror; to kill them all...
What god am I to fate the last of men?
So his thoughts came around like a wheel, a retread of their own tracks.
This is sophistry.
He stared up into the floor of the universe, decanting his mind. The jetsam and lagan of inquest and acquest strewn across the buoyant fluid of impartial awareness; just like the patternless glim and glum of an interstellar cloud. An abrupt and jarring paranoia spalled his immanence - irrationally he recalled the spooked fluttering of a brace of joulops against water - not merely psychosomatic but external. Those stars stared back at him.
Who will judge my judgment?
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