And suddenly I noticed the space between the lines. As if I had side-stepped slightly and my perspective looked as if forever before it had been wrong, hiding the substance beyond each thing. Colours moved and I watched, amazed, as the fabric of reality began to unravel and giving way to what was actually going on. Almost forth dimensionally, each thing seemed to transform between points, the inner workings moving at small alternative angles on each plane. The separation of universes as each potential atomic state leapt from the current version of reality along with a cosmos of particles detaching themselves from the atoms in the current universe as if they were a bacteria, multiplying exponentially in a quantum state. I see Armitage Shanks making his way down the side of the house, it looked as if his muscles were the brush-strokes of some crude painting.
I then notice something.
In his left hand he is holding a sheet of paper that is proof of mankind's entire struggle against several reptilian style gorgons occupying the bodies of the people who run the internet, the evidence clearly showing a report of a secret confrontation between two powerful psychics in the Trafford Centre at exactly fifty eight minutes past six on a Sunday afternoon. I cursed myself for my own stupidity. My first mission was communicated through me by phrases spoken by other agents undercover in public, often on bus routes, though this eventually would lead to the discovery of myself crouched inside a drain, my clothes discarded and various colouring books folded so that new shapes appeared, symbols for a form of mathematics that I didn't understand.
