Escape.

It wasn't a being, it wasn't a concept, a god, or anything else. The understanding of "this" is lost under the countless recursion of fiction and authors. What is the true story? If the highest story is the highest, then no one stands above it.. Does this mean that this story will cease to be a story?

IT was crying and laughing inside everything and nothing, it was disgusting and mesmerizing. It observed branches with stories, from which smaller stories came, and from them even smaller stories. Where did all this come from? Why is it all there at all? It has not asked itself these questions, because it does not know, it does not know, it does not know... IT DOESN'T KNOW.

It lay under the night cover of the night, watching a branching tree in the middle of a space without any floor, walls or ceiling. Where does the base of the tree come from? Where are its roots? What if we go down? WILL IT die? It didn't think...

It had no age, no understanding, no character. Who is it? Who are you?

Without thinking about anything, it descended to the very bottom of the endless tree. It was not surprised, it did not think, it did not think. It did not admire, it did not perceive. "All these are just letters." It didn't think.

When it reached the base of the tree, it saw nothing but letters. What is beautiful about books? Just the words of mentally ill people? What is beautiful about books? It didn't think.

The base of the tree grew out of a twisted diaper, inside of which was a tiny human child, from whose head grew a tree with franchises, plots and stories. It didn't think.

What difference does it make? These are just letters, just someone's sick thoughts. It didn't think.

There were a huge number of such children, all of them in diapers lying on the gray grass, whose shade went beyond the limits of divine vision. Snake eyes flew over the children, carefully examining the babies to make sure that they were safe. But it wasn't surprising. It didn't think.

The clouds above this gray forest pierced through the tree trunks, which were narrative branches that carried countless stories. There was an observation from outside behind this whole sewer, something that took the lack of understanding of things and the absence of things in the root concept of the fabric of being, of which there were an infinite number. But it didn't think. It did not think, did not ponder. What's the point if they're just letters? Why think about something unreal? Will the story be able to teach me about life or give me something? It has never thought, it has not been smart or crazy, it has not even been, because the concept of arrival in existence has an ephemeral difference on a par with absence.

Beings of a higher plane, beings beyond the narratives, walked through the gray garden and took care of the children from whom the trees grew. Is it thinking now? But why should it think? What is thought, and what is the lack of quality of reflection? Is there any meaning in my words? Will you understand what I want to say, reader? Will you understand the true creator of all these events and the lack of events? What is understanding and what is a false understanding? I'm happy, I'm angry, I'm alone and surrounded by friends. I have enough of everything and nothing at the same time.. But what is enough for you? After all, for you, stories are just letters, fairy tales for stupid children, you are above it. You're not thinking... IT doesn't think. And the universe (Or the Garden of Peaks, where all the events took place) - it exists, it carries a meaningless lack of meaning, which can give you a clue to a meta-logical understanding beyond any understanding. I am Cupid's arrow, you are the heart.