Seething at planck’s constant the energy sheds streamers of light, racing past the quarks, leptons, mesons, to burst through into the baryonic, bobbing in the sea of vast particles.

As a field of consciousness, it gravitates towards other such infrastructures. Shimmering in the subatomic, converging towards a magnetic pole oscillating in a quaint little solar envelope, the little god made itself in the shape of the mayflies it found.

It stood in a field of gently rippling grass, a crowd of protean immortals. The single divided. They turned their hands around, blinked slowly, moved their haunches, pushed air through experimental positions of the tongue.

They gazed upon the herds of upright, shaggy beasts congregating on the rolling hills. They observed other upright creatures, smooth of flesh and scant of hair like themselves, but carrying tools of stone and wood. They watched the ensuing genocide.

One by one they forgot their true origin and, an archetype each, became avatars of timeless tales.