The deeper the thinking, the freer the fall. The skull, a stand-alone archive, scraped clean of flesh and sinew, synapse and circuit, continues to hold forever--like a star or tumbling satellite--the accumulated stacks of warehouse wisdom (and folly) the original skull-pilot acquired in the brief time of its life. Now this free-fall library of bone turns dryly through all the sequences of space, congested, engorged, its despair initially circular, then spherical, then end-stopped and repeated forever and forever until some anti-Big Bang stops everything in its tracks and brings sweet black rest.
