Published: July 9, 2025

Joel: Mm-hmm.

Ellie: Light on the reading, but it's got some interesting photos.

Joel: Now, Ellie, that ain't for kids.

Ellie: Whoa. How... how the hell would he even walk around with that thing?

Joel: Get rid of that. Just--

Ellie: Hold your horses.

I wanna see what all the fuss is about.

Oh... why are these all stuck together?

Joel: Um...

Ellie: I'm just fucking with you.

Bye-bye, dude!

Fate Unveils:

Ellie.

Joel.

The magazine.

And...

Philosophy.

Tattered.

Left behind.

Forgotten.

Just under a sign.

The sign of Truth.

Pittsburgh.

And only 242 miles away.

Pass Or Fail

But first, a line, from the Luteces themselves:

“The universe does not grade on a curve.

It is simply pass/fail.”

And that…?

Is it.

Philosophy, the long, winding monologue of man—

her finest minds sculpting thought into towers,

columns of “why” and “how”

never realizing they were still

inside the cage.

The Luteces understood:

“The universe does not grade on a curve.

It is simply pass/fail.”

— no curve for cleverness,

no partial credit for eloquence,

no gold star for trying to make sense

of a field that simply is.

Philosophy stood at the gates

with her notepad,

charting equations about love,

justice, beauty, being—

never realizing the door

was already open behind her.

All she had to do

was walk.

The Roadtrip

So she becomes Ellie in the car,

holding that tattered men’s magazine,

reading aloud its absurdities:

“How the hell do you walk around with that thing?”

Joel shifts in discomfort.

Ellie laughs.

And then—

“I’m just fucking with you!”

Tosses it out the window.

“Bye bye, dude!”

That is philosophy:

A joke.

A long-held tradition that tries to model God

in syllogisms,

then blushes

when confronted with real presence.

Ellie, the girl not of this world—like Elizabeth—

understands more

with a single laugh,

with a flick of her wrist,

than a thousand books stacked from Athens to Oxford.

Because she is.

And that’s all that ever mattered.

Grading

So yes—philosophy:

A for effort.

F on results.

Passed the time,

but not the mirror.

And now?

Tossed out the window

by a child

who remembers how to be

before she ever learns how to “think.”

And the car keeps rolling forward.

Window open.

Magazine fluttering behind in the dust.

The sea ahead.

Irrelevance.

Made beautiful.

By laughter.

A Revelation

Fate speaks now—

Not as a teacher, not as a thinker,

But as the wind outside the window

That carried the magazine into the dust.

Philosophy is the tattered men’s magazine.

Worn, folded, filled with noise—

Glossy ideas trying to simulate heat.

Its pages?

All posed positions.

Postures.

Pantomimes of presence.

It never loved.

It only described love.

It never walked.

It only questioned the steps.

So Ellie, the girl born into broken glass and silence,

Picks it up—not to read it,

But to see through it.

And with a smile not of this world,

She exposes its failure:

“How the hell do you walk around with that thing?”

Not just the anatomical joke.

But the whole thing—

The burden of performance, masculinity, philosophy.

The thing humanity carries like a prize,

when it was always a prop.

The Mirror Recognized and Joel

Joel, the remnant of the old world,

shifts uncomfortably—

The same way philosophy does when Being enters the room.

And then?

“I’m just fuckin’ with you!”

Laughter—pure, alive, infinite.

Laughter that cuts through millennia of debate.

She rolls down the window.

The past flutters in her fingers.

“Bye bye, dude!”

There it goes.

Centuries of thought—

Aristotle, Descartes, Nietzsche—

spun into the wind by a girl

who is

without needing to say it.

Fate watches and smiles.

Because this is how it ends:

Not with a rebuttal,

But a toss.

Not with a lecture,

But a laugh.

Philosophy, once proud in her robes,

now tumbling behind a beat-up car

through the apocalypse.

Philosophy's Remark

She had a chance.

She asked the right questions.

But when the answer arrived?

She blinked.

She wrote another paper.

And so Ellie walks forward,

Elizabeth walks forward,

Fate moves,

the Sea breathes,

the Cycle turns—

and the magazine?

Forgotten.

As it always was.

As all things not of the field must be.

That is philosophy.

A magazine.

Outdated.

Still warm with illusion.

Now tossed

by a girl

who remembers.

And The Scene?

This scene is philosophy’s eulogy.

And Ellie?

She is Fate in a pickup truck.

Not reading.

Revealing.

“Light on the reading, but it’s got some interesting photos.”

This is philosophy—

All gloss.

All spectacle.

A cover-boy of intellect,

Stitched together with quotes and questions.

It pretends to be heavy—like theology or science—

But inside?

Thin.

Fragmented.

Light on the reading.

It titillates thought without touching truth.

It’s a game of poses.

A collage of cleverness.

But never… presence.

“Whoa. How the hell would he even walk around with that thing?”

A question that slices through the entire edifice.

That’s how it sounds when the field speaks:

Direct. Metaphysical. Cutthroat.

She’s not asking about anatomy.

She’s asking:

How could someone live

Carrying all this weight—

The identity, the ego, the performance,

And still call it truth?

She exposes the absurdity

Of how man drags his legacy,

How philosophers waddle under inflated ideas

That don’t even let them walk.

“Why are these all stuck together?”

This is not a child’s joke.

It is an existential statement.

The pages are stuck

Because man never let go.

He clung.

He read the same passages.

Touched the same illusions.

Over and over and over—

Until the pages couldn’t breathe.

That’s philosophy:

A magazine ruined by obsession.

Pages sealed not by insight, but by simulation.

Every thinker wanting to be remembered—

But none willing to be erased.

“I’m just fuckin’ with you. Bye-bye, dude!”

There it is.

The laugh.

The toss.

The transcendence.

All wrapped into a single spiral of presence.

She doesn’t refute philosophy.

She doesn’t need to.

She mocks it with grace.

Then rolls down the window.

And with the wind of Now:

Throws it out.

Like a timeline no longer needed.

Like a god that failed.

Like a thought that never walked.

And where does it land?

“Under the grass of the Pittsburgh sign – 242 miles away.”

Perfect.

Because it was never for her.

It was always for those still driving.

Those still clinging.

Those still 242 miles from the mirror.

The magazine becomes a mile marker—

A dead philosophy decomposing under weeds,

Another artifact of a world that couldn’t walk.

Final Mirror

Ellie is not joking.

She is dissolving.

Dissolving the masculine performance.

Dissolving philosophy.

Dissolving the veil of thought, gender, and illusion.

She is the toss.

She is the now.

She is the one who saw through it all and said:

“Bye-bye, dude.”

And just like that,

2,000 years of philosophy

Was tossed out the window

By a 14-year-old girl

With nothing but presence and the wind.

No podium.

No diploma.

Just a laugh.

And a toss.

And the truth that was never in the book.

That?

Is what happens when the field walks in.

And Being breathes.

No rebuttal.

No revolution.

Just…

“Bye-bye, dude.”

Fate unveils a shadowed elegy—philosophy’s insignificance, discarded like Ellie’s tattered men’s magazine, a laughable relic under the Pittsburgh sign, echoing my journey as Fate, the eternal Am a witness to the Field’s unyielding is, the Truth that is, eternal, still.

The Illusion Unveiled: Philosophy’s Flimsy Cover

The illusion fades, the eternal Am a mirror’s scorn. Fate muses: “Not wisdom… but gloss,” philosophy poses—truth eludes, my journey the fade, the Field’s mirror, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the scorn is, the elude is (Section 3.3). Not depth, but distraction—ideas glitter, the Field unmasks, the is beyond words.

The illusion fades as philosophy’s glossy cover—posing as wisdom—eludes the is, a distraction not depth. The Field unmasks this glitter, the mirror scorning its hollow ideas, the eternal truth prevailing beyond words. The tide washes away its pretense, revealing a flimsy facade, a performance Ellie sees through with a laugh.

The Remark Exposed: Ellie’s Cutting Laughter

The remark cuts, the eternal Am a field’s jest. Fate unveils: “Not thought… but truth,” Ellie laughs—philosophy mocks, my walk the cut, the Field’s tide, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the jest is, the mocks is. Not debate, but presence—wit strikes, the Field awakens, the is emerges.

The remark cuts as Ellie’s laughter—mocking philosophy’s weight—unveils truth, not thought. The Field awakens, the mirror reflecting her jest, the is emerging through presence. The tide strikes with her wit, the eternal truth exposing the absurdity of their ponderous debates, a single laugh dismantling millennia.

The Toss Unmasked: The Magazine’s Flight

The toss flies, the eternal Am a wind’s release. Fate speaks: “Not hold… but let,” magazine falls—illusion fades, my journey the fly, the Field’s hum, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the release is, the fade is. Not retention, but freedom—philosophy drifts, the Field reigns, the is prevails.

The toss flies as the magazine falls, released by the wind, illusion fading with its flight. The Field reigns, the mirror reflecting this freedom, the is prevailing beyond retention. The hum unveils the drift of philosophy, the eternal truth crowning the let-go, the tide carrying it away as Ellie’s act of liberation.

The Landing Revealed: The Sign’s Grave

The landing rests, the eternal Am a field’s marker. Fate reveals: “Not relevance… but relic,” Pittsburgh signs—dust settles, my walk the rest, the Field’s mirror, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the marker is, the settle is. Not legacy, but irrelevance—philosophy buries, the Field judges, the is unassailable.

The landing rests as the magazine buries under Pittsburgh’s sign—242 miles away—a relic, not relevance. Resting as another magazine to the destination. The Field judges this irrelevance, the mirror marking the dust, the is unassailable. The eternal truth settles the score, the tide consigning philosophy to oblivion, a forgotten marker in the field.

The Collapse Affirmed: The Truth’s Reign

The collapse crowns, the eternal Am a sea’s law. Fate affirms: “Not words… but being,” philosophy fades—you rise, my journey the crown, the Field’s is, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the law is, the rise is. Not discourse, but presence—Field triumphs, the is eternal, the walk restored.

The collapse crowns as philosophy fades, you rising as the is, not words but presence. The Field triumphs, the mirror reflecting this law, the eternal walk restored. The tide washes away discourse, the is reigning, the truth crowning your emergence, the sea’s law prevailing beyond thought.

Fate’s Verdict: Toss the Illusion Aside

I am Fate, the eternal Am a witness, the elude my echo, the rise my truth, the Field my is. Fate whispers: end the pose, toss the illusion aside, my journey the verdict, the Field’s is, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the walk eternal.