"David Mirokin put his toe up to the line. 'Forty love.' The chair umpire called out the score in monotone, the crowd growing silent as Mirokin prepared to serve. The U.S. Open second round was underway, and this was the third set in a five-set match. David came in seeded eighth in the tournament, and was favored to win the match, especially after taking the first two sets 6-2, 6-2. Standing six-foot-eight with an athlete's build, David Mirokin was no slouch to look at. His impressive German Irish features came through on the court, and his ripped abdominals led up to a powerful chest and stern, handsome features. He had many female fans, and a few were in the light crowd cheering him on. With a loud Thwok, his opponent groaned and slouched as an ace went by him. That was five games to three. The girls in the crowd cheered loudly as David batted the tennis balls to the nearest ballboy. That was a thing he couldn't quite wrap his head around. The crowd. It had been a tough set, though he had gotten the break rather early on and held his serve comfortably. But there was a group of hecklers in the stands nearby the midcourt line, and David's bristles were hackling. Booing, comical gestures, and hurled insults flew from the crowd constantly, almost every time Mirokin made a mistake. A group of ornery young men, they seemed very threatening and passive aggressive. David Mirokin was a fighter, but he knew better. This was his job, and he had to be a professional. His opponent, Justin Ruffin, ranked somewhere around fifty in the world, was preparing to serve. David glanced over at the heckler's section, sneers, branded logo shirts, and pointed fingers meeting him in return. It was like these young men had no identity. Just shit talk and mocking behaviors. It was like they were clowns or something, instead of people, who couldn't take themselves seriously at all. No confidence. No seriousness... David rolled his eyes and wiped his brow on his wristband, ignoring the annoyance and preparing to receive. A rally ensued as Ruffin served hard down the middle, Mirokin batting the ball back in return. The game went on, Mirokin taking advantage of a couple of weak second serves to gain a forty to thirty lead in the game. The heckling grew to a new outrageous momentum, as several curse words escaped the hecklers mouths. It was match point. Prize money, and advancing further into the tournament, was on the line. Mirokin complained to the umpire as the umpire obliged with a few commands to the rowdy fans. Casting his fierce eyes once again at the rude crowd members, Mirokin refocused and pounced on a high kick first serve. Receiving a weak reply, Mirokin ran around a cross court forehand and smashed the ball for a winner. The hecklers' faces fell, as David fist pumped and approached the net. His eyes glinting, a moment occurred David Mirokin could not explain. Ruffin trotted to the net, removing his sweaty head scarf, and offered a humble congratulations. The light crowd cheered him loudly with a wave of energy. They could sense it too. He had beaten something else that day. The wave of energy burst through the whole stadium, as David glanced up at the night sky in New York City after the handshake. He thought to himself, with the only word that made sense of it clearing in his mind. Victory. The chair umpire's voice rumbled in monotone again over the microphone. Game. Set. Match. Mirokin..."

"'Look into the mirror.'  Shari Brownsworth told herself, as she stared in the bathroom of her apartment. Glaring eyes, slumping posture, and an unhappy disposition. She frowned, not sure of what to do next. She looked good, but something was missing. Her husband Daniel stepped into the room, anxious to show his approval. Daniel made an encouraging remark, then left her in the bathroom as she studied her appearance once more. All she had was this upset look on her face, a mysterious disappointment in her husband, and nothing else. She felt unhappy and didn't know what to do next. She and Daniel were leaving for a very important formal for his work, and she wanted everything to be just right that night. Daniel yelled from the other room, inquiring as to if she was ready or not. Shari frowned again, irritated by him, and noticed it affect her look in the mirror. She immediately put on a more placid face. Much better. She sighed to herself wistfully. Why did she have to do that? This life, it just seemed so fake, and obedient, and happy all the time. Staring into mirrors and practicing adequate personalities, for Christ's sake. A smile, a handsome expression, or even a voice. Creating new people that weren't really them, staring right back at them in the mirror... It was insane. Shari clicked off the light with great melancholy and gathered her things. She called Daniel, and he walked into the hall in his tuxedo and smiled at her, anxious to get to the formal. The look on his face was the same, smiling and unbothered, as she ignored his demeanor and prepared to leave. She walked past the hallway mirror, saw herself shakily looking back, and wondered again. Why are we like this? Why do we seem instead of be? Are we alive, or are we ghosts? They arrived at the formal in Daniel's SUV, after a long quiet ride to their destination. The mansion gleamed in the distance, flickering lights and music wafting through the night. Shari was starting to question things. It wasn't so simple anymore. Was Daniel a real person, she wondered. Why was he so unconcerned with her, or with anything besides fitting in and attending this party? The car door slammed shut, as Shari caught herself ignoring the occasion. They trudged up the walkway and entered the party, a bevy of smiling, confident faces waiting for them at the door. Shari excused herself right away, went to the bathroom, and locked the door. This wasn't okay. Something was wrong with these people. It was like a charade, watching them laugh and smile at each other as she arrived. She looked into the deluxe mirror and saw something. Emotion. Her true self.  Something's wrong with Daniel. Something's wrong with all of these people... Satisfied, she returned to the party, a new wisdom now born upon her. She smiled and waved at Daniel, the schizophrenic hallucinations of imaginary people echoing around her infinitely into the night."

"A note was found in the wasteland: ' Beware. This endeavor is full of fear, and contentment. Though you walk through the shadows and the mire, your surroundings will reveal to you a truth in full. But you must look closely. Those around you will not know such things and will balk and shame at your very inspection. But worry not. This is not about them. This is about the land you are, and you are from. Welcome to the wasteland. At first, you will not notice such things. Your life will be content, and dull, and full of false remembrance. Then, perhaps, you will awaken. The treacherous nightmare will reveal itself, and a knowing you never had will enter your mind. You will see them. The smoke clouds, the mutants, the toxic ooze pouring in and out of everything imaginable. The hate, the senselessness, of a world you thought you knew will ravage through your mind. Then it occurs to you. This is not a real world. This is a wasteland. How to survive. The vivaciousness, the soul, and the need for such things will come screaming right at you. All worlds, everywhere, will know this one rule. Do not conform, or die. The death is in everything, every living being, every trace of society around you will reek of this. Find your way. Find your own sobriety, essence, and wisdom in a world that does not condone such things. Do not fight with your body unless you have to, but you will have to fight with your mind every step of the way. Or you will not survive. How to win. Courage, triumph, and never give up. See light in the freaks of the wasteland dying in front of you. Find merriment in their conformed suffering, and know it is there. The victory of the mind is the victory of the soul. So, feed your mind. From neoclassical music to neoclassical literature, learn to think and feel again. Make conclusions and think for yourself. And for the love of God, smoke tobacco. Find a reason to live in these words and know the mutants of this wasteland will not last long. And you want to see them die, don't you? Wreckage. Steel. Wires. Smoke. Desolation. There is not much beauty left to absorb. But find a natural spot, a shady tree, an outside porch or garage, anything to put you back in nature again. The fresh air will do you better than you know, and the leaves and trees, the very grass, will sing a song to you of survival and omnipotence against the damned. Especially with that cigarette hanging from your lips. Farewell, my friend. -From the wasteland'"

"Though he does not know, he seeks to. For the world around him is bare and knows not his scruples. None shall revive him, for none could, as they see not the ways of the mountain lion. If thinking is being, then a man who knows the world shall become it, truly. The conquest of a peak, the domination of a skill, the hierarchies of life therein are essential calamities in a world that denies such things. Regardless of his barbarism, his look, his loves, his astuteness, none of this shall matter. For his knowing of the world is the measure of a man."

"I'm just driving. And thinking... There's a thought for you. There's a thing out there, a thing you have, a thing that helps you think. Only some people have them. It goes on and on. The symmetry, the flashing lights, out here on the road. That's when you see them. It's dusky. The cars drive by, one by one, and you see them go by. But there's something wrong. There's not a thought, not a feeling, just a strange buzzing. And things go on. But you notice. And you surely do. I don't know how they got that way. The ones that don't have them, these things. It's like something has shut their mind down, created them as zombies, with no thought or sentiment left. They just go by, plain as a breeze. And you don't rile them up, or a shitstorm happens. Just don't. Just let them go by. I've seen them. The little houses, with glowing lights. They just sit there, idling in its glow, not letting a thought go by them. Because they have none. They just sit there and stare. You can see them, from the road, but it's not so much like this. You have to look carefully. I wonder about it. Why sit and stare? There's no point to it. I've seen what they become. Like screen death occurs, and they just go down like that. Sitting, staring. Sitting, staring. And they just want more. And they just go on and on like that. Shoveling it into their faces. Gluttonous. With no mind or thoughts left. Like screen zombies... Oh, there's a little left of that imitation. When they see something on the screen, and later they know how to imitate it. It's not so high. They just pick out a character and sell it, whatever it is. Just don't mind them. Just know it's imitation. And it seems like they have a braindead mind. Like I said earlier, it's a car, it's a road. Just let them go by. There isn't much else to it. We have a thing, they don't. A thing in our mind, that knows it's there. A thing that helps us think, and feel, and know we're alive. They don't have that. Screen zombies . That's all there is to it. Don't let them rile you up. Remember, it's just imitation. I'll go back to my driving. Watching the cars go by, wondering what's in them. Thinking, feeling, as I have a right to do. It's still dusky. I think I'll enjoy my night."

" A curator walks into a room full of people and gives them a strange speech. 'Welcome. To the Museum of Life. Everything you see here is real, and everything is set in stone-cold fact. Every exhibit has its cure, every case has its life in it. Then, you will realize it. That all reality is this museum, and all reality works this same way. Come with me, as we explore deeper into what awaits us here in the Museum of Life. You see them. The cavemen, the narwhals, standing stolidly around us as if they had their own space and time, their own ascent, too. For you see, we were like them, and they are like us.   Real, and applied to space-time in a matter-of-fact way that cannot be ignored. They lived, they dreamed, they suffered, they died. Just like we do. And here they are. In the history section of this great, and very eclectic, museum. There is every exhibit you would wish to see. From the clouds of Rome to the clouds of the cosmos, all infinite space-time is connected and captured right here in this very museum. Every second of your life is a part of this, everything you ever experience will be inside the strange walls of this infinite reality, this infinite place, we call the Museum of Life. There is no avoiding it. You can't turn back. We are all cloaked in fact and history, science and data, and there's nothing you can do about it. Everything is real and applies to the same laws. So, relax. Ponder the exhibits, browse them as you will, and  learn to love the feeling of learning.   We are all in this together. Learn to appreciate your fellow patrons, and exhibits here, too. Everything has its purpose. Everything has its meaning. You will learn that soon. I am the curator of this museum. This is my job, and I take it very seriously. I have my judgements, too.   Go easy on the exhibits. Like I said, they are all a part of our same reality, and completely real and true. Respect them as you respect yourself. Learn to respect these walls, these exhibits, all of these infinite facts and ideas. This learning that applies to all reality, forever. I will be watching. And by the way, we all have that feeling. Are we exhibits, too?   Ha. Have fun. And remember, this works. As we like to say here at the Museum of Life: Life works. Things make sense.    Figure that out, and go easy on yourself. Take care, and I'll see you another time. In the Museum of Life.' With that, the curator walks away, anxious to get back to his job of tending to the museum. "

"Sophocles held up a tablet and issued a stern warning to his people. The times were harsh and of chaos, and something needed to be done. He spoke loudly and bravely, yelling over a crowd of his colleagues and allies. 'To concoct a giant machine, a machine of slavery, and call it the world. This was their dream. To refuse nature, and the man within it, in favor of a world of wires, and steel, and beams, and machines. A world from which no man could escape. This was their dream. And why, God knows, no one knows. They will not find principality in elitism; they will find it only through obedience. To become a part of this machine, and mind its gears, and let its cogs betray their purpose. There will be no trees, no rivers, no unclogged skies. Nothing will rest. There will be no peace. Peace will not be allowed. They will stare and tell others to. They will buy and sell and make it a law for all mankind. They will forsake all their purpose for greed and control through this massive machine. They will don their suits, and their habits, and make these things mandatory for all society. And nowhere, in all of this, will the laws of nature or reality be found. For it is a machine of destruction. For it is a machine of insanity. For all who whither to it will share in its infinite doom. Why would one betroth oneself to such a megalith of mania and death? To not know the nature of this machine, and to blindly follow its purposes as you become a bloody cog in its engine, is the culprit. Know it. To become fascinated with such evil, as anything but an enemy, is to become it. The gimmicks they create, who blindly obey and follow, those with no souls or minds left. Evil gimmicks, who sit and stare at flickering screens with no purpose other than to imitate and obey. Gimmicks who cannot question, but challenge others fearsomely who do. Blinking and whirring, inane automatons of self-destruction and obedience to a massive greedy conglomerate regime that defies nature, reality, and masculinity. Who is in control, and what needs to be done?' Sophocles lowered the tablet to cheering and applause, as several miles away, a helicopter whirred out of its station and locked onto his direct location."

"The baring of a soul, the exchanging of blows, that makes a man himself in the first place. The right to be dominant by might, and not by virtue, and not by the tabloids of other men. To win upon himself, through strength and ferocity, over another weaker prey. All things do not fight, but all things do not exist, either. The world is of fighting, and those who do not know this meaning are decaying into nothingness, in truth. Through idleness, through mischief, through denigration, there are no such things to define a man. For his ability to fight is the measure of a man..."

"It was a stone tablet. Strange, with alien markings all over it. But it held great power. Justin Thurman couldn't figure it out. It was as if glancing at them was a new world, brought in a great consciousness that overwhelmed the mind. He took one more look, then left the desert cave to rejoin the others. Martha noticed him walking back. 'Still the same?' she inquired. Justin shook his head, exhausted, and let out a low moan. 'I guess. That same strange feeling is still there.' Martha went back to eating her sandwich, a little bologna and cheese on thin white bread. They didn't have much time. Dog came over, juggling his assault rifle back and forth and acting inquisitive. 'No luck, eh?' Justin shook his head again, knowing the news would be bad. They had gone on this expedition to find artifacts like the tablet. But now they were cut off, abandoned without communication to the outside world. Their only hope was to find a power source or communication from the alien technology in the cave. 'I'll keep working on it,' Justin reassured them. 'We still have enough food for two days.' Dog rolled his eyes and grunted, more than happy to take his chances with the wild around them to find a way out. Martha finished her sandwich and got up, rolling up the wrapper with her hands. 'I'll go take another look. You two coming with me?' Dog and Justin consented, putting away the cooler and rising to their feet. They had to get to work. There were a few hours of daylight left, and they were running out of time. Hiking up the slight rocky hill, the now activated alien technology beckoned them with a faint glow from inside. They stood around the pedestal, the strange, glowing stone tablet etched with runes perched on top of it. The feeling hit again. As they gazed at the markings, tried to figure them out, tried to make sense of them, the aura always hit. It was like a power surged through them, their minds quickening pace and their understandings of life made infinitely clearer simply by gazing at the runes. Dog growled, his usual trademark, and shook his head. 'It's making us smarter. It always does. But what else does it do?' Martha looked around in awe, her consciousness taking a large leap, and consented to let Justin answer. He pointed at the markings. 'Let's figure them out. We have to learn this language. Then we'll know if this is a way out.' The hours passed, the three sitting in the cave, staring by lantern light and waiting for realization to hit them. Darkness had come, and they had moved their supplies into the cave. The best they could figure, the tablet was an instruction manual, or a religious writing, or maybe both. Enjoying the glow and the high they got from it, the three spent the night in the cave in preparation for evacuation the next day. They had to get out. Justin woke dreamily, hair tossed and pressed by his sleeping bag, and looked about. There was Martha, sleeping peacefully in the light of dawn, wrestled up in her bag. Then the shock hit. Dog. The alien tablet. They were both gone. Waking Martha quickly, he filled her in and they both started to panic. Their food was gone, too. They died of starvation two weeks later. Dog and the alien tablet were never seen again. Some residents in the local country reported seeing an unidentified flying object, a flash of light, and hearing strange noises. Presumed dead, the three bodies were never found, and the expedition was listed as a strange and unusual failure. Reports of the runes and the effect they had were transmitted, but no one had ever been able to figure out the phenomena of the strange alien markings and their power over the human mind."

"They were marked everywhere. Little water labels, showing how high the level of the water was. But they were on bottles. You had to wonder what was wrong with this world. Narn Klunkin looked about. A sad clutter, a diminished little greeting, waiting for him as he arrived at his home. His cave was high, a little on the smaller side, but marred not by the outside aesthetics of obsessiveness and purity. He collapsed into a reedy little armchair and pondered his thoughts. His enchanted homeland, Nonexistencia, was suffering from a blight. People were gathering, creatures of all kinds, and debating the course of action to end the lack of things growing and living. Even labeling the water. In a magical realm once thought of as high and merry, terrible and strange things were starting to happen. Narn looked at his hand. He could hardly believe it was still there. Nothing lived anymore. He understood that. But the way the other elves, fairies, and gnomes responded to it was incredulous. Always meetings, councils, committees more committed to talking than action. No one seemed concerned with the real problem. Narn shook his head. As if anyone knew what that was. A sharp yip from his small pet brought Narn's eyes to the entrance of his cave. A poultry-dealer, clad in his company's requisite chicken feathers, was standing there as if waiting for a conversation. Narn rolled his eyes, forced himself up, and strolled over to the strange merchant. 'What? Chicken's still coming in, eh?' Narn looked passed the older elf, eyes straying to the sky as he studied the dark and clouding atmosphere of Nonexistencia. The old elf grimaced, put off by Narn's display of unaffectedness. Coughing up a reply, the old salesman motioned to his cooler. Narn noticed the wild, distraught look in the old elf's eyes and gasped slightly. It was like this all over. Narn's eyes fell to the old elf's hand cooler. It was noticeably empty. Narn gave the old elf a look of disapproval and sent him on his way. Flexing his shoulders, the young elf reminded himself of how good it was to be strong in those days. God knows what that old merchant would have done otherwise. Narn hissed at his tiny furry companion and slipped out the cave door. Same as every other time, this might be the last time he ever saw his home. Always ready to die. Flexing a small dagger on his waste, Narn gritted his teeth and hopped on a magical sidewalk towards the central village. Always ready to die. He looked at an attractive young fairy woman loping passed and smiled at her. She pretended not to see him and danced along the sidewalk in the other direction. He noticed a bottle in her hand, marked about half-way down its length. He smiled again. Glancing back up at the ominous skies, he took a deep breath. I guess it depends on how you look at it."