Hate. Hate without words. Hate like weather, like gravity, like the Higgs field. My hate. I think of orange wine. Even now, somewhere, someone is treading the grapes for that glass. I can taste it, in the future, crisp and deep. For a moment, a wasp hovers over the glass, then drifts away. Sunlight hits the neck of the bottle and shines through on to a white tablecloth. Goodbye, Zagreus. The prison universe makes a noise like an indrawn breath as it vanishes.