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The lotus in his hands, the Navigator runs out across an immense plateau ringed with tiers of pale mountains. Across the plain something looms, a tower, or a dark peak.

The Navigator stops. He drops the lotus. His hands are blackened stumps. He stares at the tower before him. The tower opens its mouth and gapes at him.

He dreams of a Mountain. He dreams of something vast and ambivalent to human endeavor, rending the earth, and piercing the sky, born without hunger or pleasure or thought at all, destroying not for hate or for evil but because its nature is fundamentally opposed to existance, a un-creator, a sleeping god unknown to man except for vague stories of an un-thing, an anti-mass, a huge form cloaked by darkness and gravity and approachable only in destruction. It is not a tower but the absence of a tower. It is not a Mountain but the slow grinding of mountains. It is not a God but the death of all Gods.

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