The nameless man lies dead upon a stone slab. The liquid leaks from the bottle still in his hand. The liquid unmakes the markings on the ground. His meditative mind turns traitorously to doubt. His scribe stands on, reading through formulas soon to be found wrong. All pieces out of place converge. His soul wavers steadily from the edge. And then- it all comes down to this. From beyond the spirits sing. From beyond he knows that he is lost. He is failed. He is wrong. He is nothing, and no one. A man with no name. Humbled for this very moment, not to be denied at the gates. Though he waits he cannot return. He forgets his body utterly. Where all forces have failed he must be forever. Nothing. No name. The lowest of things not to have a name. He weeps for one. And then- there comes a name. Not his, but another. And another. He searches from this wavering edge and the names speed through him like a swift steam, and he can hear the singing grow louder and louder, rushing like water. A century passes and then another. He holds the names, embraces them. The names are all one, one being. A grand spirit, larger than he can reach the edges of. A century passes and then another. He soaks in the names like water. He breathes the names like air. Every man and animal and idea and feeling and every noun in every language dead and old and not yet born flows through him. He is a body of nouns. He is a vessel of names. He lies dead upon the slab and then awakes. With hollow eyes he eyes his scribe. With a hungry voice he calls the scribe by name.