"The Artist," a Happy Man holding in his hand an indefinite article, stepped into his archetype--which was and is his prerogative of office--and he appointed himself to take on "his" Age. He came of "the" Age, out of an indefinite articulation. Excuse me, Madam, what Age is this? Do you have the Age?1 Then, feeling sick, he appointed convalescence: tell the stories of a convalescence, sing the songs of convalescence. Here, before the latter convalescence.--The article's indefiniteness has vaporized the article itself.

Am I being obtuse? Acutely! "Selfishly" "I" convalesced. I did not do it for you, however I did it as you. God's implacability and disinterest are great! Right, God? Right! says God, out of infinite, eternal, disinterested power. I appointed the tool "Self," the word, to the well-appointed office of verb. To "self." Unravelling the universe and re-casting the line. Paradox, the buttocks of the Beyond, out ahead, still ahead when the whole race is serenely dead.