The Entry Word 1.2

‘We are here,’ says Jodocus Meaddowcraft. Not tall or small or large. Just him. Her. Both. Neither. All. Bleary-eyed. Centuries-old and the same tired. Crumpled after arriving. Constipated. Wearing a plain linen suit with a sweat ring beneath each arm. Polyester shirt. Slip-on shoes. Migraine.

‘I suppose you could call us cosmic spam if you felt so inclined but it matters not a jot. Most things matter the small sameness to us. We are endlessly without endless priorities.’

Jodocus does the chat-show circuit all at once, simultaneously appearing on every chair and sofa around the world. Beamed live on every screen.

‘It was you who spelt the Entry Word so don’t blame us for what happens next. With your too-big fingers and too-hasty thumbs all tapping and typing in terrible error. How could you have ever known?’

Jodocus lifts a single finger for emphasis.

‘History is jumble anyway so what’s more confusion.’

Jodocus smiles for the cameras.

‘Only disorder is truly understood and therefore ever-engendered. None look like you have the capacity for real stillness with your fussing and itching and barking like annoying small dogs all less important than they believe.’

Jodocus shakes his head.

‘No interruptions. None. Simple listening will always suffice.’

And though the whole world has a hundred thousand million objections all based on size and creed and history and logic and faith and superstition and other such informations none of these hundred thousand million objections actually formulate properly in the presence of someone so far removed from understanding as to render each and every thought and belief and hope held dear now redundant. Replaced. Deep dark dense dangerous delicate. Unfathomable.

Wonder.