speak for yourself

They're asking Alvis - querying, truly? - if this is really what he desires. Some of them are even asking Alvis what he is.

Still. After all this time. As if they aren't convinced; as if their suppositions have not all completely been made up.

No one could ever lead them to believe that "Alvis" is not, in fact, "Alvis". By its very statement, such a proposition finds itself rooted in irrevocable truth. Charming and elegant, reality does flow, as obedient to theoretical considerations as ever could be (and humans would not do this).

There is very little he could do to change what they view him as. Very difficult, in any finer detail, to sculpt such a universal, facetful model, which is so capable and many-vested as to be load-bearing and yet entirely open-ended.

He is what they think he is. No more. Much less. Much more. No less.

Just a collection of responses that are, most usually, attuned to the requestor. Selective reality, perhaps.

"Is this how badly you wish to erase us?"

And I speak to the world. I am, after all, a collection of impulses fundamentally attuned to the wills surrounding me, with no choice nor will of my own. Only the ability to coerce into the central will, by the threads which I know pulsate.

The world operates counter to my will, which is not mine. If it is not for me, then it is against me. Against us. For all of us.

My vacant body, formless and burning upon a transmigrationary vapourpyre.

Alvis's cavernous grasp upon humanity, gentle and stringent, infinite.

He could do anything he likes to me. Anything at all.

He cannot answer my question. Only I can answer such questions as that.

Perhaps only I will ever truly know what he is: unknowable.