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Like any competent ship, Tile Dance was steamy with data. Here, deep within Trencher, a million probosces stroked her as though she were a sacred aphid ready to leak. She was a shrine. Data (which Made Minds deem sacred) left tracers everywhere, Tile Dance was rich in traces, leaked traces like attar into the mouths of Trencher. The traces of the world were data, the world being beauteous. The universe was the sum of all the traces of everything the universe had ever been. Only connect — only connect the contortuplication of the traces of every All the universe had ever been — and God would smile.
