in the winter hamlet of lipswitch, in a house his grandfather built, the most famous philosopher of his day igor wieczorek (vee-CHORE-ek) dared to know the truth of things: i have heard it said, he proclaimed one day, on the porch where his father played as a boy, that my theory has strong foundations, that i have buttressed my ideas with solid evidence, that i have constructed a plausible framework, that i have staved off imminent collapse. therefore, i conclude that truth is a building, and that to know it, one must first step inside. at this, igor wieczorek set out to town, and great crowds mobbed the scene and gawked at the old man as he limped from storefront to storefront. he licked the bricks and mortar and marveled at the herringbone parquets threaded into wooden floors. he climbed the thatched roofs with two legs and two arms out to the sides, a shriveled gecko out for some sun. he stood in the doorway, its frame, for hours on end. still, he found no sign of the truth.

so igor wieczorek returned to the house built by his grandfather and thought some more: i have heard it said, he said one day, on the porch where his father played as a boy, that the thought left a bad taste in my mouth, that we demanded only raw facts and would not swallow what was given, that the plan was half-baked and left us little to chew on. therefore, i conclude that truth is a food, and that to know it, one must consume it. at this, igor wieczorek set out to duck duck goat dim sum and sat in the back left corner booth (his usual spot). he ordered the bbq pork buns, then the fried taro dumplings, then pan-fried turnip cakes, then the potstickers and soup dumplings, the egg tarts and custard desert buns. every conceit was meaty, every inspiration percolated. yet still when he came to the end of his meal, and could not in good conscience eat one bite more, he found no truth at the bottom of his empty bowl.

so igor wieczorek returned to the house built by his grandfather and thought some more. i have heard it said, he said one day, on the porch where his father played as a boy, that people cannot see the truth of what i'm saying, that they view it differently. and yet my conversation is brilliant, my insight's insightful. when i speak, the skies seem to clear. therefore, i conclude that ideas are light, and to know it, one must see it. at this, igor wieczorek climbed a ladder to the roof on the house his grandfather built. and there, igor waited for the sun. like a penitent nun, he lit the votive candles and laid out a white towel where he might rest his head. stone solemn, he finally understood what all the sun was hiding. she distracts us, showing us a world of such indulgences. a bright white medusa, those who look upon her turn to stone. innocent enough at dawn, then a crowning babe punctures the sky. then a splash of red, and it's all over.

at some point igor awakes but in a great blackness that envelops his entire mind. he tears at it like a plastic bag but cannot get it off. the whole world switches off, not a single sound comes to him in any direction. not a single thought intrudes upon him. here and now, he finds the truth of things.