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Description
        It was as if someone had grabbed my hair and yanked me out of hibernation. The pain in my head was enough to blind me, but instead I was given my sight back, along with my hearing. I smelled death, just as suddenly as I tasted blood. A pair of hands touched my scalp from behind. They were warm and soft, and barely grazed the skin beneath my hair as they massaged awareness back into me. Before I could understand them to be the hands of a map-maker, a servant of God, they were gone.
        I knew I had been awakened from my dreamless sleep because I was a Summoned Great, a prisoner of a past action who now must survey its consequences. I expected that whatever I was waiting to see would not be good.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

        I stand in a long line of excited people. Most of them wear brown coats. A few wear black pants, black trenchcoats, black shirts underneath, and red shoes. The wind blows with an uncharacteristic gentleness. A few papers slither by along the ground.
        Each person in line holds a yellow ticket. At the end of the line, a young woman who appears the right age to be a student takes tickets and tears them with a great white made-for-TV grin plastered on her face as if she were a model. “Have a great time!” she chirps to each person as she hands back ticket stubs. As I get closer, I see that she wears no makeup, not even nail polish. The man in front of me holds out his ticket, the young woman reaches for it, and her shoulder fades like the picture on a TV screen, fuzzy and gray. The blip lasts only a second, and she pulls the ticket towards her and tears it without further incident. Nobody else seems to have noticed this tiny malfunction.
        I don’t have a ticket, but I pass through the checkpoint, knowing that no man will give me the slightest glance. I join a group of people in front of a towering green canvas wall that stretches upwards through the clouds. I look to the left and right, and can just barely see it curve. It looks like a giant tent enclosing an area the size of a city.
        A golf cart speeds around the tarp barrier and screeches to a halt about forty meters from us. A man in navy sweat pants and an olive-colored shirt jumps off of it and taps the side of his head with his hand once. The passengers of the golf cart return this strange gesture and flee the scene in high gear. The man in navy and olive begins walking briskly towards us, and we part to let him through to the canvas. After quickly counting heads to gauge the size of the group (he doesn’t count me), he fiddles with a few small and well-camouflaged clips, and a flap in the tent falls open to receive us. We step through the flap onto a scrap-metal platform with railings on three sides, the other side forming when the tent flap is clipped back up. I look down at the platform and observe that even though it is just ordinary metal, with no trace of paint on it, it is still red and black with rust and grease. The man, who is our guide, rests his hands on the railing and bags on a panel attached to the inside of the canvas. Our platform begins moving on tracks beneath it, and he speaks: “Gather around, my friends, and prepare to learn the true story of our wonderful homeland!”
        We pass by enormous rectangular buildings, some made of brick, some of different kinds of black-tinted metal or glass. Red and black. Our guide explains: “You may notice that there are no curves inside the government district, and no strange angles. The only angles you will see are exactly ninety degrees, and the only edges you will see are perfectly straight. They have all been measured and built to fit the vision of our founder, who decreed that all should be simple and nothing should stand out or command one’s attention any more than anything else. To this day, we use only one shape for our structures: the most modest and cost-efficient shape there is, the wonderful rectangle! Wonderful, friends!”
        I like the city: stunningly simple and efficient, just like the guide says. No architects spending millions of dollars just to show off. Something in his little speech stirs my memory. I have heard this principle before when it was just a dream and believed in it, and now someone has made it real.
        The people stare at everything the guide points out with something approaching reverence. He shows us the Press Department, the Welfare Department, the Security Department, the Department of Rules and Regulations, and many other monoliths and cubes. The government provides for every need and want of the people, stops crimes before they happen, and manages to be pluralist without being overbearing or cumbersome. Oh, the organization of this society! These citizens are so lucky to live in such a perfect place!
        We stop at one small cube of black-tinted glass, and our guide tells us, “This building looks the newest, does it not, friends? It was actually constructed in the year two thousand and one.” He pauses so the tourists can gasp and gawk and marvel. When he continues, he gradually builds suspense in his voice for the grand finale of the tour.
        “When our founder died, his quest was still far from finished. A few disciples took it upon themselves to educate the world of his vision, a vision that once seemed idealistic, and now is a powerful, practical force in the great domain of mankind. Unfortunately, he never lived to see us complete what he started. The remains of Carl Nelson…”
        Carl Nelson!
        “…Lie within this humble tomb…”
        This cannot be!
        “…a building sixteen feet in height, length, and width…”
        My own Utopia, my little pet dream! My head spins, my thoughts racing like electrons, as shock advances to overwhelm me. This was not supposed to happen! I punctuate every little snippet of intelligible thought with an exclamation point. Fame corrupts! Fame is not allowed! Fame is the enemy! Yet it’s mine. These people worship my spirit. A mother points to the tomb, and speaks to the small child she’s holding. “Look, Peter, that’s where Nelson is!” Is pride okay to feel? If I am proud, will I know it? Am I proud right now?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

        The tour ends, and the people file out the tent flap and back onto the asphalt wasteland. I follow the mother as she carries little Peter away from the government district, breathing heavily. Finally, she sets him down and tells him he’ll have to walk. Peter doesn’t like this idea, but his mother holds his hands and half-drags him along as she tries to think of ways to amuse him.
        “Did you know,” she whispers to him suspensefully, “that Carl Nelson was rich?”
        “No, no!” cries little Peter, “No, he wasn’t!”
        The mother smiles, relieved that she’d distracted him enough to stem his complaints.
They live in a residential district about three miles from the giant tent, and the sun is setting by the time they get there. The asphalt ends and I step into a corridor of apartment buildings, all rectangular. The corridor might be called a road if it had been re-paved some time that century, and I see no cars or other vehicles outside. The apartment building in which Peter and his mother live is next to a public park, accessible through a gate in the chain-link fence that defines three of its sides. The fourth side, parallel to Peter’s dwelling, is created by a brick wall about eight feet high. There is a small space between the building and the park, just large enough to create an alley, through which I stroll, collecting my thoughts as streaks of gold in the western sky mark the place where the great glowing orb went under. Darkness begins to cloud my view as one question clouds my mind: Would they still worship me if they knew how human I was? In those straight edges and right angles of the government district, which celebrated simplicity and the quality of being plain, there was still perfection. If they’re trying to make their land perfect, I think, it is an error to include me in their history. The creator should equal or exceed the creation. The creator should not be in awe.
        As the gloom of twilight settles, I wonder if there is a perfect part of me. I wonder how I was ever able to create such a vision for the future. I wonder if everyone has his or her own Utopia, and how wonderful it would be if everyone’s dreams were unleashed, and humanity itself was the only secret, silent flaw left in the world.

Description
        It was as if someone had grabbed my hair and yanked me out of hibernation. The pain in my head was enough to blind me, but instead I was given my sight back, along with my hearing. I smelled death, just as suddenly as I tasted blood. A pair of hands touched my scalp from behind. They were warm and soft, and barely grazed the skin beneath my hair as they massaged awareness back into me. Before I could understand them to be the hands of a map-maker, a servant of God, they were gone.
        I knew I had been awakened from my dreamless sleep because I was a Summoned Great, a prisoner of a past action who now must survey its consequences. I expected that whatever I was waiting to see would not be good.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

        I stand in a long line of excited people. Most of them wear brown coats. A few wear black pants, black trenchcoats, black shirts underneath, and red shoes. The wind blows with an uncharacteristic gentleness. A few papers slither by along the ground.
        Each person in line holds a yellow ticket. At the end of the line, a young woman who appears the right age to be a student takes tickets and tears them with a great white made-for-TV grin plastered on her face as if she were a model. “Have a great time!” she chirps to each person as she hands back ticket stubs. As I get closer, I see that she wears no makeup, not even nail polish. The man in front of me holds out his ticket, the young woman reaches for it, and her shoulder fades like the picture on a TV screen, fuzzy and gray. The blip lasts only a second, and she pulls the ticket towards her and tears it without further incident. Nobody else seems to have noticed this tiny malfunction.
        I don’t have a ticket, but I pass through the checkpoint, knowing that no man will give me the slightest glance. I join a group of people in front of a towering green canvas wall that stretches upwards through the clouds. I look to the left and right, and can just barely see it curve. It looks like a giant tent enclosing an area the size of a city.
        A golf cart speeds around the tarp barrier and screeches to a halt about forty meters from us. A man in navy sweat pants and an olive-colored shirt jumps off of it and taps the side of his head with his hand once. The passengers of the golf cart return this strange gesture and flee the scene in high gear. The man in navy and olive begins walking briskly towards us, and we part to let him through to the canvas. After quickly counting heads to gauge the size of the group (he doesn’t count me), he fiddles with a few small and well-camouflaged clips, and a flap in the tent falls open to receive us. We step through the flap onto a scrap-metal platform with railings on three sides, the other side forming when the tent flap is clipped back up. I look down at the platform and observe that even though it is just ordinary metal, with no trace of paint on it, it is still red and black with rust and grease. The man, who is our guide, rests his hands on the railing and bags on a panel attached to the inside of the canvas. Our platform begins moving on tracks beneath it, and he speaks: “Gather around, my friends, and prepare to learn the true story of our wonderful homeland!”
        We pass by enormous rectangular buildings, some made of brick, some of different kinds of black-tinted metal or glass. Red and black. Our guide explains: “You may notice that there are no curves inside the government district, and no strange angles. The only angles you will see are exactly ninety degrees, and the only edges you will see are perfectly straight. They have all been measured and built to fit the vision of our founder, who decreed that all should be simple and nothing should stand out or command one’s attention any more than anything else. To this day, we use only one shape for our structures: the most modest and cost-efficient shape there is, the wonderful rectangle! Wonderful, friends!”
        I like the city: stunningly simple and efficient, just like the guide says. No architects spending millions of dollars just to show off. Something in his little speech stirs my memory. I have heard this principle before when it was just a dream and believed in it, and now someone has made it real.
        The people stare at everything the guide points out with something approaching reverence. He shows us the Press Department, the Welfare Department, the Security Department, the Department of Rules and Regulations, and many other monoliths and cubes. The government provides for every need and want of the people, stops crimes before they happen, and manages to be pluralist without being overbearing or cumbersome. Oh, the organization of this society! These citizens are so lucky to live in such a perfect place!
        We stop at one small cube of black-tinted glass, and our guide tells us, “This building looks the newest, does it not, friends? It was actually constructed in the year two thousand and one.” He pauses so the tourists can gasp and gawk and marvel. When he continues, he gradually builds suspense in his voice for the grand finale of the tour.
        “When our founder died, his quest was still far from finished. A few disciples took it upon themselves to educate the world of his vision, a vision that once seemed idealistic, and now is a powerful, practical force in the great domain of mankind. Unfortunately, he never lived to see us complete what he started. The remains of Carl Nelson…”
        Carl Nelson!
        “…Lie within this humble tomb…”
        This cannot be!
        “…a building sixteen feet in height, length, and width…”
        My own Utopia, my little pet dream! My head spins, my thoughts racing like electrons, as shock advances to overwhelm me. This was not supposed to happen! I punctuate every little snippet of intelligible thought with an exclamation point. Fame corrupts! Fame is not allowed! Fame is the enemy! Yet it’s mine. These people worship my spirit. A mother points to the tomb, and speaks to the small child she’s holding. “Look, Peter, that’s where Nelson is!” Is pride okay to feel? If I am proud, will I know it? Am I proud right now?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

        The tour ends, and the people file out the tent flap and back onto the asphalt wasteland. I follow the mother as she carries little Peter away from the government district, breathing heavily. Finally, she sets him down and tells him he’ll have to walk. Peter doesn’t like this idea, but his mother holds his hands and half-drags him along as she tries to think of ways to amuse him.
        “Did you know,” she whispers to him suspensefully, “that Carl Nelson was rich?”
        “No, no!” cries little Peter, “No, he wasn’t!”
        The mother smiles, relieved that she’d distracted him enough to stem his complaints.
They live in a residential district about three miles from the giant tent, and the sun is setting by the time they get there. The asphalt ends and I step into a corridor of apartment buildings, all rectangular. The corridor might be called a road if it had been re-paved some time that century, and I see no cars or other vehicles outside. The apartment building in which Peter and his mother live is next to a public park, accessible through a gate in the chain-link fence that defines three of its sides. The fourth side, parallel to Peter’s dwelling, is created by a brick wall about eight feet high. There is a small space between the building and the park, just large enough to create an alley, through which I stroll, collecting my thoughts as streaks of gold in the western sky mark the place where the great glowing orb went under. Darkness begins to cloud my view as one question clouds my mind: Would they still worship me if they knew how human I was? In those straight edges and right angles of the government district, which celebrated simplicity and the quality of being plain, there was still perfection. If they’re trying to make their land perfect, I think, it is an error to include me in their history. The creator should equal or exceed the creation. The creator should not be in awe.
        As the gloom of twilight settles, I wonder if there is a perfect part of me. I wonder how I was ever able to create such a vision for the future. I wonder if everyone has his or her own Utopia, and how wonderful it would be if everyone’s dreams were unleashed, and humanity itself was the only secret, silent flaw left in the world.