It’s all in his head: every page of the measurable universe. He was old when he began, whenever that was. No one can remember. He recorded the first thing that happened, whatever that was. He is white-haired, tall and thin, wearing a woolen robe and a little pince nez, holding a goose-feather quill. We see him dropping little slips of paper, not because he cannot hold it all, but because we need him to look that way—otherwise, mortals could not hope to make sense of him, as they grapple with the immensity of the history the god has recorded.

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