To my inverse ghosts, eggs and sperm not yet ravelled, I hope you see this as a disturbed age, but likely you will be as laden with goblins as we were. I am going to tell you a story, the only message likely to survive - certainly you will be able to understand bodies moving in a sequence through the lens of a solitary narrator, and a story can work regardless of medium - and I am going to contribute this to the mess for the smallest dab of cred, all to be dropped into the food drawer, assuming that reliquary of the common good remains by the time the drops are put in your ear.

So as I go forward I will keep you, the backwards click of a clock echoing, in my ears, simulating your desires to know by extrapolating my own desire to understand the time before the great gray plagues and the bad weather.

Amongst the victims of the last three decades were my mother and father, killed by zealots who thought to use a wise wire and spool to destroy the adults and convert the children, and grandparents, and the sudden appearance and hard removal of the true faithful across the messes - the most fucked of all times, the agents exploding and the book burnings happening as a series of blue flames in the deepest of imagined space. Thank God for backups.

I imagine you so that you may send your message back; I am listening, and the gulf between us thicker than steel. You will want, I hope to reach back and put your hand against mine, but my fingers will already be reclaimed into the small wrapped box - one square foot six inches deep - that is the full measure of the man.