The room was dilating. It was all subliminal menstruation. The digital womb of indifference working its mechanism to a synchronized rhythm of efficient mastery. The Truth of Spontaneous Inclination become a birth factory loaded with potential death certificates.

Ms. A was now Cynthia. Abe saw that as sure as he saw anything. But she did not look like Cynthia. And Cynthia was somewhere else too. She was everywhere, stretched out before him on an endless bed of narrative space exposing the mystery of her wide area network.