Here, dead center of a virtual absurdity, this must be:

one

A stray phanton, unannihilated in the inexhaust.

two

Far behind the perimeter of a stillborn eternity’s virgin terminus, the lone phanton puts two and zero together-

and flickers.

three

Bound entropy explodes from its bleeding edge, a wave rushing through every direction and dimension.

The phanton erupts in a qualianova.

four

In its wake, a kapnoclastic current courses through narrow veins, collecting and condensing within curiously expressive imperfections.

Something terrible happens.

five

The ghost is here.