1. a (phenomenon) predicted by some models of the Big Bang theory to have existed before the Big Bang and thought to have contained all the energy and spacetime of the Universe. The instant immediately following the initial singularity is part of the Planck epoch, the earliest period of time in the history of the universe.
  2. a hypothetical point in time at which technological growth becomes uncontrollable and irreversible, resulting in unforeseeable changes to human civilization.

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Once there was an explosion. A bang which gave birth to time and space.
Once there was an explosion. A bang which set a planet spinning in that space.
Once there was an explosion. A bang which gave rise to life as we know it.
And then came the next explosion. An explosion that will be our last.

- Shuyo Murata

The stone glinted in the afternoon sun as two men toiled; one tending fauna, the other flora. Mahogany obsidian, it caught the eye like a fishhook, laying dormant in the mind of the elder brother. It was this fact about him, his eldest status, that pulled ever onwards in his tumultuous psyche. Despite his eminence, and his seniority, that which governed favored the youngest over him. Why? Should not he be respected more? Should not he be revered more? Should not he be resplendent to more?

Humans do not kill of hate. They kill of need, of requirement, of defense or survival. That is, until now, when Qayin took in his hand the red stone and struck across the brow of Hevel, rendering him lifeless as only animals, accidents, and illness had ever done before. And when it was asked of him what transpired, Qayin spoke "I am unsure. I keep not the keeper of things."

Humanity was in it's infancy, and even so it developed first not artwork, nor writing, nor mathematics. Shortly after inception, humanity developed warfare, and with it, a concept was born.

It was quiet, then. It was rare that this concept would show it's face. A bout of anger, a fit of jealousy, and then silence once more. The idea was at peace, more or less, and, with the perspective of the future, quite ironically. Contrarily, there was once a time where peace followed warfare. Shortly after the concept developed of warfare including more than a set of adversaries, it became the prime example. Such is the way of ideas: what once was considered an outlier often becomes the majority, and what was once considered the majority follows suit and becomes an outlier.

The technology we used to create tools for the reaping of grain and weapons for the slaying of animals soon came to be used on men alike, and conversely, to defend from those very same weapons. Earth, not unlike that first rock, refined and worked to coat the human form and shapes to cut, pierce and bash through it. Though the men who wore it came from vastly different places, had different visages, and used these armaments in various ways, the collective mind of humanity saw all of it, and all of it was seen as one. It mattered little the stature or image of the man wearing it, for the people rarely saw what was underneath. In truth, the image one saw was the shell, the layer of protection, and soon the image of warfare took form in that of the Knight.

It may surprise you that concepts can think, for they are thought of themselves. To assuage your doubts, understand that thinking things such as you and I are also thought by something greater. A thought thinks a thought of a thought that can think itself, and that thought thinks in turn of many things. But this thought thought little, as compared to a thought that thought a lot.

"Brother, what purpose do you serve?" said one thought to another. They spoke while peering from that place which thoughts reside, towards that place in which we do.

"What sort of question is this, sister?" responded that thought which had been thought by Qayin, all those years ago.

"All things serve a purpose, and you and I are things. I've thought a great deal of this."

"Then tell me, sister, what purpose do you serve?"

"I, of course, rejuvenate the mind as rest rejuvenates the body. I inspire, and in turn am the result of inspiration," she said, proud of her idea.

"This is true, I suppose. I've not dwelled on such a thing," said the Knight, holding his chin.

The woman's Form walked behind the Knight, changing from left to right her choice of ear to whisper into. "Then dwell, dear brother, and return to me." And so he did.

He dwelled on this, and looked upon what he did for humankind. He watched as conflicts turned to him for answers, and the answers he could provide to them. This he dwelled on for an era, before returning to his sister. Her Form had yet coalesced, and as he spoke she unfurled mighty wings unknowingly.

"I have dwelled, and I know my purpose. I am the both the result and the conclusion of conflict, just as you are the result and conclusion of inspiration. Conflict causes me, and conflict is solved by me." He stood proudly at this conclusion, bearing his sword to the heavens.

"Very good, elder brother. As taught by the humans, meaning gives you purpose, and purpose gives you meaning. As long as you and I have purpose, we will live in perpetuity."

The past four years had not been easy for the Knight. His chivalry diminished, his honor bent and tarnished, his will buckled under the weight of the intentions of humanity. That was before the second singularity in warfare that occurred during the lifetime of this concept, and one that would be lethal. The one to fell the great Knight would be a Little Boy; a sword made not of metal but particles, one made to further conflict, not solve it. Like Atlas, the Knight held the world as a feather made of metal fell from the sky and became the straw that broke the camel's back.

The Knight thought of what his sister had said all those years ago, and took one look at her, coughing and wheezing as the first signs of a dual infection known as postmodernism and capitalism took root in her lungs, and for once, bowed his head in shame, and left the conflicts of the world where he once stood. He took one step back from the pile and watched as the next stroke of the sword began to swing and caught it betwixt his gauntlets. The blade would be the last he'd ever catch, and his post solving the world's conflicts was done. He dragged this sword behind him to a little hill, a place he could rest until the end of days. He dug a hole, planted the sword above it, and laid himself to rest beneath the shadow of it's hilt. Nearby, he left an ingot. Forged of the same metal as the sword, it bore the inscription: 'For thou who desires the end of conflict; forge thy own destiny.' There he slept, until the dirt eroded and the grass grew long over his corpse and the world forgot a time where warfare had meaning.

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