They swallowed, tasted their tongues, sucked their lips, and there was a far-away look in their eyes.  Mack peered into his empty glass as though some holy message were written in the bottom. And then he raised his eyes. “You can’t say nothin’ about that,” he said. “They don’t put that in bottles.

He felt safe in the oak tree’s presence; it was a thing that nothing could change or threaten; it was his greatest symbol of strength.

Like any librarian in Reality, this daemon can move around without audible footfalls.

No one thought about the big picture for a few thousand years. We were all scrambling to survive.

Written By Neal Stephenson

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