His name was Eric, not that anyone ever needed to know. It was only in knowing his failures that his heart became feather-light when weighed by Anibus against the featherweight of Ma’at in his immortal abode of Duat.
As Eric’s knowledge approached omniscience, he began to ascertain that when the wind blew in off the lake at summer it never came in at the precise direction that meteorologists claimed it did, and he discerned that astronomers were mislead about the light spectrum and chemical compositions of distant stars, and he discovered to his astonishment that during certain twilight hours in mid-April when the full moon filtered in through the bay windows, the angle of reflection exhibited normally distributed aberrations from the angle of incidence. He understood, furthermore, that the Big Bang has never really ended, that humanity views it now from the inside the bubble as a set of complex mathematical objects, and that the atemporal evolution of the universe appears to exist sequentially only from within the mathematical object.
There is a line in a poem by Octavio Paz that Eric used to know, before he lost his sense of teleological morality and his memory of the passage of time, as it is with all beings whose substances are not subjected to the entropy gradient of the universe. All history is thus oblique. The line is: “Es transparente el infinito.”