Narrator 1:
In the beginning, there was enveloping darkness. Darkness swallowing darkness. Darkness capturing more darkness and stuffing it into envelopes.
(Some have said that the nadir of the Industrial Revolution, paper boys paper-folding and stuffing in stuffy factories, mining girls minding coal dust as they breathed it, was the darkest time this generation can recall, and vented reminiscences of the universe's birth: blind, cold.)
And then there was The Light. The Light was small, red, and winkled to begin with. Nobody commanded her to appear, she did so on her own. How? you may ask. How does a disordered amalgamation of carbon know how to squeeze itself into a diamond? How does it accessorize enough Gibb's free energy to reverse its own primordial entropy? Is it afraid in the obscurity? Orphaned atoms under stress? Perhaps crystallization is nothing more than the pimpling of youth. A young man's peers parade over his toes, his parents peer over his shoulders, his teachers cram facts down his throat. Surrounded by benevolent enemies, his face shows his loneliness. His pores yearn for respect. The pressure results in the blossoming of blemishes.
And thus, the commencement of our universe was no bigger bang than the gentle blushings of puberty. And now, we return you, dear reader, to the fantastic preoccupation of our newly introduced character. The first of aforementioned blushings. The Light...
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