There is a hexagonal grid that contains a thousand worlds. All of them float apart from one another, neatly arranged so each one can be studied. Some are connected, some are repeated. Some glow brilliantly or spark malevolently. All are beautiful, in their own way. Off to the side, neatly signposted, there is a donation stand. The worker established there writes relentlessly. As the jar fills with its watery payment, more worlds are created. The jar is never full, but neither is it empty.
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