Everyone in the car was screaming. They were saying he was drunk, that he should stop right now. But he could not see any way of stopping; he never could. He had to keep going on, on into the impossible distance, beyond everything that was. So he drove the car into a tree. The tree was a wooden doorway. It led into one of two spaces: one that was empty even of himself, or one where he could perhaps finally speak in a language so fresh and new that it was actually wet, wet on his fingertips. The language of the mind, solipsistic, impenetrable, inevitable, invincible. He was destroying himself in order to destroy the universe, the universe that depended upon his existence. Now there would either be rest finally from the struggle or a new universe, a whole new universe. Nailed against the slender wood by the mangled metal of the still spinning machine, he waited to see which it would be.