I am a bird. Hand me a stone. Savoring in the gullet. Grinding up whatever else comes in, or serving as another milling device. Esoteric may be the explanation while in Reality, we have simple little lifes, pulled from the tree of ignorance to feed the ones who read too many books to get away from the feelings that had no place to nest. If continuity happens, there will be recurrence. As the end of the story, the narrator gets brash. Takes out the main character, claims it was time.