The grey staticky image that Golam's avatar had become inside the Jewish Quarters, was starting to lose some peripheral pixel-data and he felt himself slowly digging his own grave. How would he dig himself out of this hole, this endless black interrogation of Life's outer space, the outer space that permeated his inner space, the acoustic environment where what he heard was his own death knell ringing in a world controlled by MACRO.

"Remember," he said to Ms. Cynth-A, "the struggle of writing is to move constantly beyond writing, beyond the definitions of particular linguistic realities, beyond Nanoscript itself, to change the world we live in."