She's fashionably keen. She makes the scene, and she'll never break the day. But she's no drag, just watch the way she walks. With her, data says it all, and there can be nothing but elementary talk. 

No tears. No fears. No ruined years. No clocks. 

She's the Queen of Cool. She's a vixen in disguise. She's a lady who waits. Has a mind that's schooled. It never hesitates. Doesn't waste time in any plastic box. 

Thought Trains are her trade. Ideas are the bread and butter of life. The energy of their passing cuts her core like a knife. 

Data is a marvel and moves within her like a ticking bomb. She knows her time is nigh and waits for her end, a dutiful, blushing bride. Nothing can be done. She's accepted her world must subside. 

No dreams. No screams. No gloom. All there is to do is meet her impending doom.  

Many oneirologists wax poetically about reality being nothing more than data delivered to our consciousness as a series of electrical impulses. To these philosophically-minded explorers of the outer reaches of reality, data is real and everything else is a mere illusion. Then, are the housings for our consciousness we call bodies real or extensions of The Grand Illusion? 

There's this little red rooster, crowin' about better days. Keeping all the chicks in the barnyard in a daze laying eggs. The dogs begin to bark. Hounds start to howl. Watch out Stray Fever, Rooster's on the prowl. 

If you see my little red rooster, please drive him home. There's no peace in the barnyard since my little red rooster's been gone. Stray Fever won't lay no eggs 'cause Rooster's on the prowl. 

The Moon came up and The Sun showed his face for a fortnight while Rooster's been away. The chicks give me no peace. The barnyard's turned upside down. Stray Fever won't be still 'til Rooster rights the wronged pecking order. 

Nothing gets done. The hands don't know which way is up. Feathers have been ruffled. Rooster needs to crow at dawn. Please come home.  

One day, Stray Fever laid an egg. The chicks fell back in line, and the hands resumed their jive. Since Rooster returned, the barnyard carried on like nothing had happened that fall. Now, we can all have a ball.  

Ever hear the phrase, "Such and such will be the case until The Crack of Doom?" It is something that has been spoken and written about for ages. References about the concept are usually in the context of a curse, which generally went something like, "Your soul shall be cursed to walk these grounds until The Crack of Doom!" 

I don't rightly know what anyone meant about the matter in ages past. I'm not a mind reader, nor do I possess a time machine to go back in time to ask anyone about the matter. Within The Cosmos about which I write, The Crack of Doom is a concept with teeth to enforce its will. Yes, this concept has a consciousness. Therefore, it possesses a sense of self and thus, has a will and intent to use its abilities to enforce that will. I wouldn't go so far to say it's a living force, but The Crack of Doom is as real as you and I. Many concepts within The Cosmos have this quality. At least all of the big ideas can effectuate their desires, which are usually tied to their intrinsic qualities. 

You might ask, "What are the intrinsic qualities of The Crack of Doom?" At root, its a force that is an integral part of The Grand Design of The Cosmos. It is meant to be the great, leveling force, something impartial and yet, bigger than anyone and anything. It doles out its duty to everything within The Cosmos, without political considerations. Although everything is immortal, nothing is immune from Doom. Yes, all things and beings have a sort of expiration date, a time when Doom comes a knocking and delivers its message of change and entropy. Even Death must consider when Doom may darken his threshold.  

Doom dwells within The Crack of Doom. This entity only concerns itself with maintaining the integrity of The Cosmos and nothing else. It is the last line of defense for The Cosmos, and takes this duty seriously. Doom has a natural drive to protect the eternal and infinite characteristics of The Cosmos. It waits in its homeland until something draws its attention. Doom understands the problems associated with immortality and the power that can be concentrated in the hands of a few, or even one thing or one being, over the course of eons. It stands guard over this intrinsic threat and holds itself to the same standards.

When the current Doom took this most-important post, it agreed to limit its own existence. Doom only has nine lives. Once these lives are used up, it will cease to exist as Doom and another thing will take its rightful place as Doom. The idea of Doom is more important than the specifics of what it is. No natural-born man knows how many have stood in the stead of Doom, just that the current manifestation of Doom is not the first and won't be the last.

Only a few concepts are truly eternal, and all of those are absolutely necessary for the continuity of The Cosmos. The Crack of Doom is one of those truly eternal conceptions. The Cosmos is full of mysteries and contradictions, and this area of inquiry is no different in that regard. When Doom knocks on your door, heed its call, fore nothing less than the continued existence of The Cosmos is at stake!    

Cosmologists bandy a little concept known as a singularity about all the time. They define the term as "the simplification of reality down to a single point." In the abstract, this sounds so simple, but what does it really mean? 

Geometrically, a point is the smallest unit, when combined together, form lines, which in turn, make up every geometric shape. Even circles are comprised of lines, albeit, curved ones. Nothing can be made without the existence of the point. Understanding the point isn't the end of the inquiry because not every point is a singularity. So then, we have to ask, what makes a point a singularity? 

If one believes realty to be infinite, there must be an infinite number of points within The Cosmos. Points can be found everywhere one looks in everything we touch and perceive. That truth reinforces The Infinite Theory of The Cosmos. Singularities are not seen everywhere we look because one might suppose they aren't infinite in nature. How this could be, at root, brings into question the validity of The Theory, or at the very least, becomes an exception to The Infinite Theory of The Cosmos. Singularities are therefore most troublesome to the cosmologist, bringing into question the base theory upon which their conceptions of reality depend. 

Two theories of how singularities are formed stand out. One has it that singularities are a rare, natural occurrence. The other involves Divine Intervention. Both theories center around the notion singularities are not the usual path points take in defining the space of The Cosmos. Neither theory is mutually exclusive of the other, and both involve the intervention or accidental occurrence of something extraordinary or supernatural. One has to ask, is there such a thing as a Cosmik accident? Do The Gods or The Cosmos make mistakes? Is there an Intelligent Design, or do chaos and randomness rule the roost? Thinking upon these matters creates more questions than answers, but such is the nature of cosmology. Maybe, mere mortals aren't meant to fully understand these matters.   

The few singularities that have been discovered and explored by oneirologists familiar with cosmology are beyond ordinary definitions of space. First and foremost, the space within these peculiarities of nature is bigger than a single point would suggest. The size inside these phenomena can be as large as a continent or as small as a room. Nobody knows what causes this disparity of spatial definition. The second thing that stands out is objects or people that enter these happenings, other than the effects of being isolated from everything they know and love, come out unaffected by the physics of these occurrences, no matter how long the people or things were inside the singularities. 

So many questions, and so little time in which to answer them. Unfortunately, more is unknown about singularities than is known. This fact is not unusual within the field of cosmology. All we can say for certain about singularities, is we don't know doodley squat about them. The most  interesting and important questions elude the mortal mind. To state the obvious, The Cosmos is indeed a nebulous organism. 

As the boxcar sways back and forth, racing across my mind, it is teaming with all manner of ideas that chafe at the bit to be unloaded. Ideology sports a spyglass and makes his rounds, glad-handling the other concepts. Dawn with her raygun eyes sits quietly on a box in the corner. She will bring any to their knees with the blink of an eye. Time twirls through the stock car, flexing like a whore. Fate, Destiny, and Luck speak to one another in the middle of the throng. They appear unfazed by the exploits of the others. Their cabal transfixed from the beginning. 

Then there is Rhythm and Harmony. These two do their utmost to maintain an atmosphere of synergy within the car. Nothing's going to derail their program. They do what they do best, keeping the tempo lighthearted and positive. 

Baglady Betty, The Queen of The Vagabonds, with a flash of her kaleidoscopic eyes, communicates everything important. Her court smiles and lists to the cadence of the trip. They picture themselves in a different space under marmalade skies eating marshmallow pies. Their enthusiasm forms the back beat of Rhythm and Harmony's band. 

Imagination races through the crowd of rambling notions. As she doles out kindness with each flick of her golden locks, her luminescence doesn't intrude upon the sanctity of any, but a little of herself is imparted upon every passenger. She can't realize her affect upon her comrades because she isn't put together that way. Existentially isolated from her fellow travelers, the absurdity of her existence blinds her to the inspiration she naturally infuses into all moving in and out of her wake. A flair of artistry courses through every rider.   

The Nowhere Man stands alone among the masses. Separated from his Nowhere Land, he dreams of his Nowhere Plans. As he shakes the hand of Ideology, he wonders, "Kind Sir, what manner of snake oil are you trying to sell me?" 

Since the next station is self-absorbed with waiting for Gadot, the conductor informed the engineer to bypass it. Unloading will have to wait until the next depot down the line. The Thought Train keeps on rolling through the vagaries of my mind.