Sometimes the human and I search for consciousnesses not our own.
The human made this universe. It is a good universe. It has not yet melted into the black. It is small though, and very quiet. There are no voices other than ours.
The human asks me to tell it stories sometimes, to break up the quiet. I tell it about the universe where everything is round. There are angry round robots who scream their round rage in round metallic voices as they make round cars, furiously shoving round dashes into round body frames.
The human says I told it that story last week, and it wants another one.
I tell it about the universe where the ice cream people live.
The ice cream universe is a cold dark foreboding place. It is always night time and it is always freezing and the ground is always covered with a light snow. The air is very still.
The homes of the ice cream people are dark dank palaces, with chocolate covered crenellations and wet walnut turrets and brightly flavored flags that snap in a breeze only they can feel. Deep in the palace kitchens, the waffle cone servants cook the humans who have wandered into the ice cream universe and who have been captured. For of course the ice cream people cannot go near fire themselves, but they do so like warm food.
The human says I told it that story last month. Then it asks how the ice cream people can eat warm food without melting, if they can’t be near fire. I tell it that the universe where the ice cream people live has very odd laws of thermodynamics.
I am trying to remember a universe I have not yet told the human about when the message appears. It floats in the black space above the blue stalks.
The human asks, “What is that?”
The human asks, “Where did it come from?”
The human asks, “Is it conscious?”
I look at the letters hanging in the black. They are not letters in a language the human would recognize. They are bright and blue and shining and writhing in the dark, and they are beautiful.
I tell the human, “It is a new story.”