This story begins where it ends, followed by a whimsical search for lucidity. The reader is taken for a particle infused gambol, a continuum circling spacetime. Isolation propels our hero, Thomas Sawyer. Exploring truth in blackholed fiction, our protagonist forages inward, where reflections of self-determined inevitability combine in a frenzy of mockery and contradiction. At lightspeed, redemption illuminates a champion's folly, a fatuitous glow of expiated observance plucking strings of pity. Quarantined with the loathing of an allegorical cat, Luca, Thomas purrs a sardonic tune toward infinity. Besieged by mirrored worlds and consumed with extinction, haunting figures swirl from Thomas' backscattering, a fanciful fancy of infantile fantasy, nonsensical nonsense neither fanciful, nor fancy, but fantastic. Every word punctuates an elliptical narrative woven concave toward cosmic salvation. Finally, in the end, childhood friends find reciprocity in a nearby cemetery, where Thomas peddles his last commodity, cashes his final check, and sells his essence for salvation. Simply, the story is the story.