Sometimes I hear signals. See them, at least. I hear nothing now but whirring from the freezer behind me. I grew up in a freezer. It was on the top rack, with ice cube trays and three other children, where I learned to masturbate and write operas. I never knew what I did not have. There was no chocolate, no clams, no erotic fantasies involving mud or exotic coffee. All I knew was ice, and cold. Today I wander through a new freezer. It is enormous, as it must be, to accommodate my sudden expansion. My thumbs are longer than my legs, my head has cloned itself into 6 nearly identical copies, while my arms have shortened to nubs. I castrated myself 14 times but everything kept growing back, bigger and more distracting than this lifetime of puberty. With the help of a medical professional I have ceased defecating but my diet of ice and water means a lifetime of urination. Since I cannot move, not quickly or at will, at least, I pee onto myself and those who step into me. It felt icky at first but has become a quiet joy. No one complains. Some even smile. Sounds of sanity echo in far away places, on tiny plantations and empty planets. I cannot see my feet past my belly, pregnant now with the next Big Bang. I don’t know how any Creator expects me to give birth but that is my charge. I’ve studied the mechanics, consulted with experienced Creators of new universes, I’ve even seeded the ground with my cum to fertilize rain forests that will soon call me Father. I remain confident but anxious, learning languages of every nation about to be born. But black sunshine turns to rancid meat, a potion of dirt surrounding me.