I write;I think;I know.

Taking the Michael?

"Have you ever seen an angel," asked my cat suddenly one evening.

"Setting aside the metaphysical baggage," I replied, "that's usually associated with such entities, yes, I suppose I’d not be wrong claiming to have seen an angel."

"Care to elucidate," said my cat.

"Well," I continued, "it was certainly a being of light. Although the light I'm talking of is akin to the after-image associate with staring at a bright light then putting your hands over your eyes."

"Were your eyes closed then," asked my cat.

"Certainly," I nodded, "but prior to that the room was dimply lit and I'd only been staring at something in my mind."

"And you saw an angel."

"Well," I admitted, "it looked somewhat similar to the classical representation of an angel, yes." For a moment I paused to pull the memories out of the back of my mind. "To be fair it looked like something else too, but if you think of an uneducated child anthropomorphizing an unfamiliar image then an angel is what they'd probably interpret it as."

"So what else did it look like," asked my cat.

"The symbol," I replied, "that is used to represent radioactivity. To be honest it scared me quite badly."

"Why," asked my cat with concern.

"I'd been banging various thoughts together in my mind," I admitted finally, "when something exploded and showed me something I'm not exactly certain I was ever ment to see. The kind of thing that calls into question all that I'd regarded as previously being true."

"Other people's secrets," muttered my cat.

For a moment I was speechless. "Indeed," I said, "from that moment I knew things could never be the same again."

"You're not wrong," said my cat. "Care to enlighten me as to what you were banging at the time."

"First there was," I replied hesitantly, "the trinity thing."

"Trinity," asked my cat, "as in the atom bomb."

"No," I corrected, "trinity as in the religious dogma and how I'd found a way relate it to another dogma that's built around pentagrams."

"Pentagrams and trinity," muttered my cat with interest.

"Indeed," I continued, "more specifically how they both link to the not inconsiderable body of knowledge I've built up on the subject of mind."

"Hmm," said my cat, "sounds promising."

"Then there was an odd things going on," I continued, "involving non-dualistic continua that I'd just managed to resolve."

"Mind bending stuff," grinned my cat.

"Also there was a strange thread that involved string theory," I said with a smile, "and the predicted aim of a rather large and expensive experiment some physicists were about due to finish building."

"Taken together," said my cat, "it sounds like an awfully holistic viewpoint."

"Indeed," I agreed. "If I had to pinpoint the moment I became aware of the tear in space-time leaking into my mind to which you alluded the other day, this would have to be it."

"Sod that," said my cat, "I'm beginning to get the feeling you've got a naked singularity in there."

"Hmmm," I replied sounding somewhat unconvinced, "not exactly the sort of thing one can get medical attention for."

"No," said my cat, "it's something we'll have to resolve together."

.

"The thing is," I muzed later, "about the angel," I added in response to my cat's puzzled expression, "is that another of my senses could see through it."

"It's an archangel," said my cat. "So come on, describe it."

"A tiny tear in the fabric of reality," I agreed, "a hole in the whole, you could say. Reality was spewing from a different verse and the nature of the whole factored the wibbly-wobbly-fuzzy-stuff into the pattern I saw."

"I once saw the early design schematics," said my cat, "for a device designed to travel through time. What you've been describing sounds dreadfuly familiar."

"That's interesting," I said. "The other thing of interest is I could perceive the nature of the substrate."

"That is," said my cat, "theoretically impossible."

"The thing about the impossible," I countered, "is that it it's only impossible until it's not."

"True," said my cat.

"Change the nature of things," I added, "and things change."

"I'm not saying you're wrong," said my cat, "but have you considered your testament is somewhat incomplete."

"Of course it's incomplete," I agreed. "It's only by exploring the intermediate model with you that I'm able to evolve it to a higher form."

"You," my cat informed me, "are what we call an outsider. By the nature of existence inside you should not exist."

"Can we agree," I asked my cat, "that we both exist."

"Oh," purred my cat, "indeed we can."

"In which case," I said with all seriousness, "we have a problem."

"No," said my cat, "when you're able to see this in the correct way, you'll see perfectly clearly that it's somebody elses problem."

"That's funny and frightening," I sighed, "in equal measure."

"Certainly," said my cat. "Now, will you please let us help you."