In the theory, these are infinite in volume and the only rule they each share in common is that there are others; a de facto 'law', if not a written one. If I had to guess, that's probably a safety valve; in the event that, say, something undesirable became potentially-infinite on a technicality, a single addition or alteration may be automatically triggered.

Whatever else might follow would likely progressively complicate, but there is a simple, early 'pariah' law which isolates truly singular anomalies; the genuinely unique is quarantined for observation. The aforementioned only backdoor can be accessed from that quarantine if there is an observer and if the observation barrier is minimally opaque in each direction. Between the surfaces of the barrier is the so-called margin for error. Pretty goddamn sneaky.

Anyway; ways, infinite in volume.

That includes their capacity, and that for which they have the capacity; states, conditions, events, acts, so on. Each one implies and necessitates their own potential contents, and their own potential opposites. The places of these are written elsewhere.

In a clean state, it's virtually impossible to discern any particular persistent continuity. It seems as though every given step must precede a single subsequent step in every possible direction. That doesn't mean a single step in each possible position simultaneously, it means that the next step must necessarily fall in every single possible position - and - not any one of the other possible positions.

So: the next step must be each possible step must be the only potential step to the exclusion of all other potential steps as literally inconceivable.

If that isn't nonsense then sense has no value.

Comprehensible or not, attempting that step sober is suicide.

However, with a creative regimen at the glass - rye and blues, in this case - one can catch the stares and take them away from the steps around the corner to the stair well. Simple.

If accessed from any other point, the stair well would offer a direct route to both the Well and upstairs; but from this makeshift nadir, the Well must be traversed, and the Stairwell - her Stairwell now - must be located.

Fucking hell.

Top shelf, back half; one turn up, then left, right, left, up, right, then ask.

Kidding. There's graffiti on the floor.

Who the fuck told her she was naked?

The defaced corner shreds anything you might wear and you are struck repeatedly with involuntary realization of exactly how low you are: colorless subquantum scum.

It sounds worse than it is.

At the edge of this corner comes the initial chill.

One step. A breeze.

It was dark earlier than I expected. However I became aware of that, I didn't learn until much later that the change shared its catalyst with most of the rest of the night's impression.

Unrelated, then, was the smell of cologne and perfume and hairspray laced into the thin remnant humidity from consecutive blistering showers in the tiny bathroom of a small house.

After dinner with another family - my parents' closest friends, I don't know where - we were back in the car when my mother turned to face me and mentioned my grandmother. A moment later, she said something about the cold outside.

"It is cold," I said.

She and my father laughed. I looked at my sister to see if she was also laughing, but she was gazing over her pacifier through the window. My mom, noticing, wondered,

"What does she see?"

When the car stopped, we were in a department store parking lot and my grandmother was there waiting for us. She also mentioned that it was cold.

Inside and near the back of the store, there were boxes with pumpkin pails; the kind people put candy in. I heard my name and turned to find my mom, grandmother, and sister all looking down at me. My grandmother asked,

"What month is it?"

"Febuairy," I answered immediately.

Two laughed, one reached for an earring.

On the way home, my mom handed me a box, took it back, then handed me a toy.

I told her that my friend would now get cold.

Wind. From the Well.

How?