It could have been everywhere, that notebook seen one thousand times times ten, a myriad by definition is the way one explains that digitisation of green cream flesh into a smooth flurry of bee-lined helmets and memory loss, Oscar and Benny and Lynn and Noodle and Fred and the rest of them forgotten because all this time has been melting into something different, something unknown and out of phase (which protects it from the earth, that traitorous rock which doesn't warn you when the molten lava comes raining out of the sky to interrupt climate-controlled fallacy and struggle) for reasons unknown and everywhere, a cream of Benny and smooth bees reaching outward into a multiplicity of voids that can only explain, by their very definition, the notebook-lined helmet that was forgotten, different and melting, by Lynn and Fred in the dark seat of the Volvo by the side of the lava-paved road: what struggles it must have witnessed, what traitorous cream poured upon unsuspecting folk who just want some goddamn peace without being bothered by unneccesary complexity (why bother when everything else is so hard?) and terminal uniqueness (it's obvious to everybody but yourself that you are not special, nor are you the definition of the void), what fallacious sky and void must have drained from its face when faced with certain and forgotten doom (DOOM DOOM DOOM, a song or a chant, your pick) based on Oscar's fingers and everywhere the insistence that this person will listen to me, this person will find my multiplicity of troubles expained for them in a flurry of goddamn folk struggles, almost there, almost Nietzchean in its untroubled and unsuspecting protection of the traitorous bee-paved road which—unknown to Benny and his complex of one thousand helmets, unique in the Western world for its terminal cream seat charm—finds itself lost and broken and climate-controlled as it awaits the screening of yet another sliver of Reeves, outward and unsuspecting, fallacious and void, searching eyes pleading with the road, protected from the phase, married and swollen and obvious with fingers unknown and molten reasons bursting from melted eyesockets hissing as steam is forced from their small apertures, a Wendigo of FaceTime data usage as she stands by the window, fist on hip, trying to protect the rain and the notebook and the peace.