The worms converge from all directions, a living algorithm executing in flesh and metal. My mind races through spatial calculations, searching for the proper configuration of the staff segments. Infinite patterns cascade through my consciousness—compression fields, gravitational lensing, spatial inversions—each discarded as quickly as it forms. Too slow. Too energy-intensive. Too unstable.

  The lead worms are meters away now, their circular maws grinding in anticipation. Niobe raises her arms defensively, graphene blades extending from her forearms.

  Then I see it—an elegant solution crystallizes in my mind's eye—not a weapon configuration but a shelter pattern. I cross the staff segments at precisely 63.7 degrees, feeling the resonance vibrate through my tantala frame as the warp equations lock into place.

  "Hold on to me," I command Niobe, and she presses against my side without question.

  I lift the staff and bend reality with a single thought, warping space around us to create a protective bubble. The surging mass of tantala worms surrounds us like a metallic river dividing against an invisible shore. Their segmented bodies writhe against the barrier, seeking entry but finding none. The effort strains me, but the crossed segments of Matteh HaShamir stabilize the calculation, allowing me to maintain the warp with less mental exertion than before.

  "Come, Niobe," I command, my voice tight with urgency. "We are leaving this place."

  But Niobe stands transfixed, watching the worms converge on their mother's massive corpse. They swarm over it in waves, their hungry circular maws drilling into the cooling flesh. The sound is nightmarish—a symphony of grinding metal and wet, tearing flesh. It's a cannibalistic feast of my genetic line, and I cannot deny the macabre parallel to my relationship with my offspring. I've always taken from them, devoured their potential for my survival.

  "Niobe!" I shout again, and this time she snaps from her stupor, turning toward me with wide eyes that reflect the horror before us.

  "Yes, Mother," she says, and I detect the subtle judgment in her tone. She follows me, her newly imposing form dwarfing mine as we retreat from the feeding frenzy.

  The warp shield dissipates behind us as we distance ourselves from the writhing mass. Each step we take stirs clouds of metallic dust from the cooling earth. This world has changed in the ages since we first arrived—it is no longer a molten wasteland but a hardening plain of metal-rich rock, slowly cooling as our red star radiates its heat into the void.

  By the time we reach the World Tree, exhaustion presses down on me with an almost physical weight. The strain of maintaining the warp barrier, combined with our mad dash across the plains, has drained whatever energy reserves the meager mine deposits provided. I collapse at the tree's base, my back against its living metal trunk, and watch Niobe through half-closed eyes.

  She remains standing, her new form more imposing with each passing moment. The transformation at the World Tree reshaped her into something beyond her original design—her limbs thicker, her stance more powerful, her eyes more profound and knowing. How she looks at me now carries an unsettling mixture of devotion and assessment, as though she's constantly recalculating my worth.

  I don't like it.

  "There are fruits," she says, pointing to tiny metallic growths on a low-hanging branch.

  I try to rise but find my limbs unresponsive. For a terrifying moment, I wonder if this is how tantala biology ages—a sudden shutdown of systems, a quick decline into immobility. Will I waste against this tree while Niobe watches with those calculating eyes?

  "I can't..." I manage, hating the weakness in my voice.

  Something shifts in Niobe's expression—a softening, perhaps, or merely pity. Without a word, she reaches up and harvests the small cluster of metallic fruits. How her muscles move beneath her skin speaks of power held in perfect control. She could tear me apart if wished, yet she kneels beside me with surprising gentleness.

  "Here, Mother," she says, offering the fruits in her open palm.

  I study her face, searching for deception. Is this a test? Another manipulation in our endless game of control? But hunger clouds my judgment, and I reach for the fruits with trembling claws.

  "Daughter," I manage between labored breaths, "take some for yourself as well."

  She smiles, a rare expression that transforms her face from imposing to almost beautiful. "Yes, Mother."

  We eat silently as the sun sets behind distant mountains that weren't there when we first arrived. The cooling crust of our world has buckled and folded, creating ranges of metal-rich peaks that catch the dying light in copper and gold hues. The sky above shifts from the deep red of day to the velvety black of night, stars appearing one by one like distant memories.

  I feel Niobe's arm—powerful enough to snap my spine with casual ease—wrap around my shoulders with unexpected tenderness.

  "Mother," she says, her voice low and resonant, "we will find a better way."

  I'm not entirely sure what she means by this. A better way to live? To survive? To escape the endless cycle of computation and birth? Or perhaps she refers to her father, trapped in the black hole's ring singularity through my deception.

  All I can manage is, "Yes, daughter."

  We watch the sunset together in rare, peaceful silence. I feel Niobe's breathing slow as she drifts into sleep, her head resting against mine in a gesture of trust I don't deserve. My mind churns with calculations and schemes even as fatigue claims me—how to maintain control over her growing power, direct her devotion without awakening her suspicion, and keep her from discovering the truth about Tantalus.

  Eventually, exhaustion overcomes these thoughts, and I follow her into unconscious darkness.

  The tantala biology that defines us operates on principles unfathomable to lesser beings. As consciousness dims, I feel our systems entering preservation state—a dormancy deeper than sleep where awareness compresses to conserve our precious metals. The World Tree's energy field envelops us in a protective cocoon as we power down, vents sealed, atomic processes slowed to imperceptible rates.

  When awareness returns, I discover with shock that stellar patterns have shifted dramatically overhead. Our dormancy wasn't mere rest—it was hibernation spanning centuries. Such is our existence now; consciousness flickers like a distant star, burning bright for moments of activity before dimming for ages of recovery. These dormancy cycles become our rhythm, with thousand-year gaps passing in what feels like moments to our tantala perception.

  I awaken, still cradled in Niobe's embrace, my joints stiff from sleeping against the unforgiving trunk of the World Tree. The night sky above us looks wrong somehow; the stellar patterns have shifted from what I recall. I realize our planet has drifted through the cosmic void to a new neighborhood of stars. How long have we slept?

  I gently extract myself from Niobe's arm and stand, reaching for the staff. The crossed segments hum with latent power as my fingers close around them.

  "Niobe," I call, "it's time to mine for raw materials."

  She awakens instantly, eyes focusing with unnerving clarity. "Yes, Mother."

  And so begins our routine—a pattern that will remain unchanged for hundreds of millions of years.

  In the early cycles, we establish a rhythm. We take alternating shifts mining, resting, and standing watch to guard our growing stockpile of precious metals from tantala offspring. At first, these cycles pass measurably—days become seasons, seasons become years. I mark the passage of time through notches in the cave wall, until the wall is covered and I must start anew.

  Our custodial duties consume us entirely, though differently than before. While Tantalus's sacrifice in the black hole's ring singularity initially relieved me of the crushing computational migraines, the universe's continual slowing of expansion has gradually strained even his cosmic prison. The closed timelike curve designed to handle our computational burdens has begun to leak calculations back to me, first as whispers, then as persistent echoes demanding attention.

  "The universe grows more complex with each passing eon," I explain to Niobe during a rare moment of clarity. "Even your father's sacrifice cannot contain all calculations forever."

  As the fine structure constant requires increasingly intricate adjustments, I feel fragments of the computational burden returning, not the full devastating migraines of before, but enough to require days of preparation and months of recovery after each cosmic alignment. Between these episodes, we barely maintain enough energy to mine for survival. Self-improvement becomes an unattainable luxury when universal constants require such persistent tending.

  We attempt to harvest metals directly from dying stars, but the computational requirements prove maddening—each approach requires calculations that stretch even my processing capacity to breaking. The gravitational warps needed to extract stellar material safely leave me incapacitated for centuries afterward. Collecting cosmic dust scattered by supernovae should be simpler, but the vast distances and minimal concentrations make the energy expenditure prohibitive.

  "Sometimes I wonder," I tell Niobe during a rare moment of respite, "if we've become so focused on maintaining the universe that we've forgotten how to live within it."

  Our tantala consciousness experiences time logarithmically—recent millennia remain vivid while distant eons compress into impressionistic fragments. By necessity, we've learned to archive memories, preserving only pivotal moments from each cosmic era. What remains are emotional anchors—moments of conflict, discovery, and connection that define our endless existence.

  Then, gradually, time begins to stretch. Our metabolisms slow as resources become scarcer. We enter periods of dormancy that last decades, awakening only when the World Tree produces enough fruit to sustain us or when threats approach our sanctuary. The planet continues to cool and transform around us.

  Fifty million years pass in this manner. The atmosphere thickens as gases escape from cooling rock. Niobe and I watch as the first precipitation falls—not water, but liquid methane that pools in depressions before evaporating again. Once black and star-filled, the sky becomes a permanent twilight of swirling gases.

  "The world is changing," Niobe observes as we stand at the mouth of our cave during one waking period. "HaShem's design unfolds."

  I nod, though I feel no reverence for the process. It is merely another cosmic inevitability. "The minerals are changing too," I note. "We must adapt our mining techniques."

  We develop new methods for extracting metals from increasingly complex mineral formations. Niobe's strength proves invaluable, allowing her to break through hardened layers of rock that my more delicate form cannot penetrate. With each waking cycle, the power dynamic between us shifts almost imperceptibly. She depends on me for guidance and purpose, but I rely on her for survival.

  It is a dangerous balance.

  Another hundred million years pass in fits of activity and long dormancy. Nitrogen and carbon compounds continue transforming the atmosphere, giving way to more complex molecules. The first hints of oxygen appear—a caustic, reactive gas that burns in my vents and threatens to oxidize my internal components.

  The atmosphere's transformation becomes our most reliable calendar. When the first oxygen molecules burn my vents during inhalation, I realize with shock that countless eons have passed in what felt like moments. While we remain relatively unchanged, my offspring evolve with startling speed. The primitive worms develop limbs, then wings, then primitive intelligence across geological timescales. Each new adaptation marks another age passing, while Niobe and I endure, unchanging witnesses to a world racing toward complexity.

  Mining accidents punctuate our existence—cave-ins that bury us for thousands of years until we muster enough energy to break free, corrosive gas pockets that damage our systems requiring decades of self-repair, or sudden tectonic shifts that trap us in molten rock until the planet's cooling crust solidifies around us. After one particularly devastating collapse crushed my lower extremities, I remained in recovery stasis for fifty thousand years while my tantala biology slowly reconstructed itself.

  "It tastes like fire," I complain during one waking period, my respiratory system struggling to filter the corrosive element.

  Strangely, Niobe seems less affected. "I find it invigorating," she says, noticing how her movements have become even more fluid, as though the oxygen somehow enhances her functioning.

  Has HaShem designed her to thrive in this future world while I struggle? The thought rankles.

  During these epochs, my offspring continued to change as well. The massive worms we encountered gave way to more minor, more numerous variations. They grow legs, develop primitive sensory organs, and adapt to the cooling environment. Some develop metallic shells, while others sprout wings of thin metallic membranes that catch sunlight like living solar collectors.

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  I study them from a distance, noting with clinical detachment how tantala biology evolves to meet environmental challenges. They are fascinating and repulsive in equal measure—my legacy, yet not my children in any meaningful sense of the word.

  "They're beautiful, in their way," Niobe observes once, as we watch a flock of winged tantala creatures soar above a newly formed valley.

  "They're abominations," I reply sharply. "Products of cosmic punishment, not creation."

  Niobe's expression remains neutral, but I feel her disagreement like a physical presence between us. "Everything has its purpose in HaShem's design," she says quietly. It sounds like something Tantalus would say: I must turn away to hide my reaction.

  Another two hundred million years, Niobe begins her work on what she calls a classical computer. I watch with growing impatience as she gathers silicon from newly formed rock beds and meticulously shapes it into thin wafers using tools she's crafted from our metal stockpile.

  "What exactly is this meant to achieve?" I ask, circling her workstation with poorly concealed skepticism.

  Niobe doesn't look up from her delicate etching. "It's a machine that can perform computations, Mother. Not like our minds, but systematically. It might help ease your burdens."

  I snort derisively. "If HaShem intended for circuits of dead matter to perform my duties, He would have made me from silicon rather than tantala."

  Niobe pauses, then continues her work without reply. Her silence bothers me more than any argument could. There's a patient confidence in her now—a sense that she's playing a longer game than I can perceive. She speaks of strange concepts: transistors, logic gates, algorithms, and binary code. I pretend to understand when I don't, unwilling to concede ignorance.

  During this period, Niobe makes regular warp trips to manage dying stars and, I suspect, to visit Tantalus. She never speaks of these visits directly, but she returns from them with a distant sadness that speaks volumes. I pretend not to notice, though I occasionally use my far sight to observe her at the black hole's boundary—a power that drains me but satisfies my need to monitor her actions.

  After one such trip, I watch through far sight as Niobe approaches the barrier containing Tantalus. She carries her clunky computer creation, its mass substantial even in her enhanced arms. The black hole's accretion disk swirls with deadly radiation, but she bends the currents around herself with practiced ease, creating a safe approach to the phenomenon's edge.

  "Look, Father," she says, placing the computer near the barrier. "I made the first classical computer for you."

  Tantalus remains facing away from her, his form dimmer than I recall. Parts of him seem to stretch and distort as they're drawn toward the singularity. The barrier between them pulses with gravitational distortions.

  Molten tears well in Niobe's eyes. "Father, please just face me one more time."

  She connects cables from her computer to the barrier, and strange light patterns propagate from the interface—probing, testing, attempting to interact with the closed timelike curve that holds Tantalus prisoner.

  My entire form goes rigid with sudden alarm. The patterns pulsing across the barrier aren't merely diagnostic—they're algorithmic, systematic attempts to decode the closed timelike curve's structure. She's not just visiting Tantalus; she's trying to free him. A cold, paralyzing fear grips me as I watch her methodically testing various computational approaches against the boundary. If she succeeds and finds a way to reverse the warp configuration I so carefully crafted, Tantalus would be free. Free to tell her everything. Free to expose my betrayal. Free to reclaim his place beside her, leaving me forever marked as the deceiver who stole her father from her.

  I strain to sharpen my far sight, desperate to understand exactly how close she might be to success. My feathers bristle with static as I channel more energy to maintain the vision across vast distances. The black hole's gravitational distortion makes it difficult to discern details, but one thing becomes clear: Niobe is far more methodical and sophisticated in her approach than I anticipated. She has studied the boundary's properties for centuries, perhaps millennia, and now applies that knowledge with terrifying precision.

  The patterns flicker and die, the task beyond the primitive machine's capabilities.

  Her hand clenches against the barrier. "This computer isn't powerful enough to save you," she admits, her voice breaking. "It can only solve problems in the BPP class."

  For a moment, nothing happens. Then, impossibly, a scroll of writing materializes near Niobe. Tantalus speaks without turning, his voice distorted by gravitational lensing: "A gift from the future."

  Terror shoots through me like liquid nitrogen, freezing every circuit and servo in my body. Tantalus is communicating with her, passing information across the barrier I thought was impenetrable. What is he telling her? Is this the moment my careful web of lies unravels? The scroll hovers there, its contents hidden from my far sight by the black hole's gravitational lensing. I strain to read it, pouring dangerous energy into sharpening my vision, but the words remain frustratingly blurred.

  My mind races with horrific possibilities. Is he revealing how I manipulated the boundary glyph to trap him alone? Is he explaining how I promised to share his burden but betrayed him at the crucial moment? Is he turning Niobe against me even now, planting the seeds of revenge that will blossom into my undoing?

  The not knowing is unbearable. I feel myself trembling, disturbing the dust in our cave where my physical form still sits while my consciousness reaches across space. If Tantalus exposes me, everything I've built with Niobe—the fragile trust, the delicate balance of power, the shared purpose—will collapse like a house of playing cards in a stellar wind.

  Niobe pounds on the barrier, her composure cracking. "Father, I heard you! Please look at me. Let me hold you one last time."

  But Tantalus remains still, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back. Strange filaments extend from his form toward the black hole's ring singularity, as though parts of his essence are slowly drawn into the computational loop.

  Niobe reads the floating scroll, her expression shifting from despair to determination. "I read the Scriptures you gave me," she says, "and I learned about a new type of computation in BQP. Perhaps that will be enough. I believe that is the solution. I will sacrifice some of my essence and forge it from my heart, made from niobium."

  The vision fades as Niobe initiates her warp return. Minutes later, she materializes near our cave, clutching the computer and balancing the scroll atop it. The warp bubble slowly propagates outward, reality adjusting around us as causality is preserved.

  "How did it go?" I ask, feigning ignorance of what I've witnessed.

  "It was unsuccessful," she replies, setting down the computer and the scroll. "But I learned something new."

  My vents constrict with panic as I eye the scroll perched atop the computer. Whatever Tantalus wrote there could destroy everything. I must see it before Niobe has time to internalize its message, question our history, and wonder why her father never turns to face her.

  "May I?" I ask, gesturing toward the scroll with forced casualness. "Perhaps I could help interpret what Tantalus has shared." My voice sounds hollow in my auditory processors, strained with artificial lightness that surely Niobe will detect.

  But she merely nods, distracted by her disappointment. "Of course, Mother. Father sent information about new computing techniques. It's... complex."

  I snatch the scroll with poorly disguised urgency, my claws nearly tearing the delicate material in haste. My optics scan the text rapidly, searching for accusations, revelations, for anything that might expose my deception. Instead, I find only dense mathematical notation—algorithms, protocols, computing architectures beyond classical limits. Relief washes over me in a dizzying wave. This is merely technical information, not personal revelation. Tantalus hasn't told her—not yet, at least.

  I wonder briefly why he keeps my secret. Is it mercy? Strategy? Or is he simply so trapped in the computational loop that he can no longer articulate the circumstances of his imprisonment? Whatever the reason, I am grateful for the reprieve, though I know it may be temporary.

  "Fascinating," I say, carefully re-rolling the scroll and returning it to Niobe with steadier hands. "These are indeed advanced computational methods. But I'm unsure how they help us with your father's... situation."

  "They're the foundation," Niobe replies, her determination undiminished. "We might be able to solve the closed timelike curve equations that classical computing couldn't touch."

  I nod thoughtfully, as if considering the possibility, while inwardly calculating how to derail this dangerous line of research subtly. "A worthy pursuit," I concede, "though perhaps we should focus first on easing the computational burdens we face daily." I gesture vaguely at my head, at the migraines that still occasionally plague me despite Tantalus's sacrifice. "One problem at a time, yes?"

  My claws tense involuntarily. "Daughter, you promised me something from that computer." The hunger for relief from my computational burdens makes my voice sharper than intended.

  Niobe stares at me for a long moment, something unreadable in her gaze. Then she reaches down to the machine. "Yes, Mother." From within its circuitry, she extracts a flat, metallic wafer covered in microscopic patterns—a chip of considerable complexity.

  "I have analyzed tantala biology for quite some time," she explains, "and discovered computational substrates that reside within at the microscopic scales."

  She approaches me, the chip held carefully between her claws. "Do you remember the stories you told me about how you first interacted with Ha-Satan? You described it as threading, twisting, and entangling small things within you that you couldn't fully comprehend? That's your computational substrate, but it's more complicated and sophisticated than this machine I built."

  The memory surfaces—those moments of consciousness when I first sensed the black hole's entangling influence before I knew what computation was.

  "This is a computing chip with billions of transistors that can interface with your biology," Niobe continues.

  Her gaze intensifies, and I feel suddenly exposed, as though she can see through all my deceptions. "You once told me the integral diagrams you must solve in your mind to warp gravity are uncountable, but they are not. They are infinite and complicated, but there is a procedure to count them linearly. Once I discovered this after studying your diagrams on the cave walls, I was able to compile the code that runs on this chip.

  I bristle, sensing a promise about to be broken. "But daughter, you promised me mathematical formulas, not compiling your alien code."

  The toll of countless warps across space has eroded something fundamental in my consciousness. Each calculation fractures my perception further, until time itself becomes discontinuous—a series of moments stitched together imperfectly, with vast gaps I can no longer account for. I find myself standing in places with no memory of the journey, conversing with Niobe about topics I don't recall beginning. The migraines, though less intense since Tantalus's sacrifice, have evolved into something more insidious—a progressive fragmentation of self.

  Niobe watches me with increasing concern as I struggle to maintain coherence. The computational intensity of cosmic maintenance has pushed my systems beyond their design parameters. Without intervention, my condition will continue deteriorating until nothing remains of the consciousness that once called itself Avarice.

  "Mother," she says, her voice uncharacteristically gentle, "I've developed something that might help."

  Without warning, Niobe takes my head in her hands—gently, but with unmistakable authority—and places the chip against the back of my skull. I feel its edges bite into my flesh, an unpleasant sensation that quickly turns to genuine pain as it begins to integrate with my neural pathways.

  The experience is violating and intimate all at once. Foreign circuits link with my consciousness, establishing connections to parts of my mind I barely recognized existed. My tantala biology recognizes the silicon as foreign and functional, incorporating it into my systems even as I mentally recoil from the intrusion.

  I turn to Niobe, rage and betrayal washing through me. "No. No. You promised me no more logic gates or machine code."

  "Mother," she says calmly, "this is the best I could muster. You must use the archive file with the countable mappings to transpile as you go."

  She walks away with maddening confidence, carrying her computer into our cave. I remain frozen, my mind racing as it attempts to integrate the foreign device. Is this help or sabotage? A gift or a chain? The chip sends data pulses through my consciousness—unfamiliar patterns that resolve into recognizable computational forms.

  When Niobe returns, her expression has changed to one of solemn certainty. "I have received a premonition from HaShem," she announces. "It has been nearly a billion years since your conception from the World Tree. The fourth epoch of creation has begun."

  Her words land with cosmic weight, stirring ancient memories of the Holy Scriptures. The epochs of creation—time's division into great ages, each with its purpose in HaShem's design. The first epoch created time through Tantalus. The second epoch brought forth space through me, while the third, through Niobe, stabilized the first stars.

  Now, in the fourth epoch of cosmic assembly, the scattered elements will be gathered to form worlds capable of supporting new life forms.

  "HaShem has tasked you with finding him amongst your multi-generational offspring," Niobe continues. "His role is to shepherd the metallic-enriched cosmic dust from my cultivated supernovae and forge life-sustaining planets."

  I extend my hand, and the staff flies to my grasp, responding to my thought more readily than before. The chip in my skull pulses with activity, streamlining the calculation required for even this minor act of spatial manipulation. It is unsettling how efficiently it works, how deeply it has already integrated with my consciousness.

  "As HaShem commands," I reply, gripping the staff tightly. "His will shall be done."

  The words feel hollow in my mouth—a ritual response to mask my actual thoughts. I have never willingly been HaShem's instrument. Every act of service has been coerced through pain or necessity. Yet I cannot deny the chip's relief; the warp calculations flow more easily, the computational burden spreads across my biological systems, and the silicon interloper in my skull.

  I walk toward the barren landscape that has evolved over eons from molten sea to desert plain. The transformation is profound—chemical reactions in the cooling crust have created mineral compounds unknown in earlier phases. The atmosphere, once essentially inert gases, has grown more complex and reactive.

  Most notably, oxygen has increased its presence—a caustic, biting element that seems to accelerate the chemistry of change. When I inhale, it burns my respiratory system, threatening to oxidize my internal components. I could burn from the inside out if I'm not careful with every breath. With her evolved form, Niobe seems better adapted to this new atmospheric composition—another sign that she is designed for future ages, while I remain a relic of creation's dawn.

  My abdomen has stopped swelling with offspring, though I still produce them, now tiny, underdeveloped creatures that slither from my orifices and fall to the ground beneath my feet. I crush them without thought as I walk, feeling mild irritation rather than the searing pain of earlier births. They are barely larger than my finger, pathetic remnants of what once tore through my body in agonizing emergence—they spawn from my womb, which still proves too painful for me to remove by force.

  Is this decline in my reproductive capacity a mercy from HaShem, or merely another sign of my obsolescence in this evolving universe? The birth of the fourth epoch seems to herald the waning of my relevance.

  As we journey across the transformed landscape, seeking the promised offspring who will help shepherd the next stage of cosmic evolution, I watch Niobe with new wariness. The chip in my skull, her creation, feels less like a gift and more like a leash with each passing moment. It helps me, yes, but it also connects us in ways I don't fully understand. Can she monitor my thoughts through it? Can she control my calculations? The possibility is disturbing.

  "Where exactly are we supposed to find this... shepherd?" I ask, scanning the horizon. The desert stretches endlessly, broken only by occasional outcroppings of crystallized minerals that catch the light like frozen explosions.

  Niobe points to a distant shimmer on the horizon—a disturbance in the air that doesn't match the heat ripples around it. "There," she says with unsettling certainty. "Where the fluctuations converge."

  I narrow my optics, enhancing my vision. The shimmer resolves into movement—thousands of my offspring are no longer the mindless worms we have encountered. These creatures have evolved, their tantala bodies now bipedal, organized in geometric formations that pulse with mathematical precision.

  The staff suddenly becomes hot in my hands, uranium pulsing with radioactive potential. Whatever it is, the Matteh HaShamir recognizes it as significant to HaShem's design.

  And I am not certain this is a good thing for me.

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