Carl was a man of unnatural intelligence.

And he had a voice to listen to. His tone was pleasant and comfortably nasal. His voice was not deep, but it was smooth. But more than that, it was the way he held some of the sounds that made his style of speech so appealing.  He’d hold the “l” in “hold,” and use the “d” to begin the next word when it started with a vowel. He’d hold the “con” in “continuously”; the “sl” in “slightly” and the “per” in “perpetually.” He’d slowly begin to raise his voice when coming to a conclusion or when making sure that the point being made was not to be lost.

He never made you feel uncomfortable.

It was like listening to classical music: here and there he would speak a little faster, then slow down; here and there he would hold some sounds and then come off of them as if he were dismounting from a trotting horse, walking quickly to keep the pace but at the same time effortlessly transitioning to a more suitable rhythm. Speaking of rhythm, the melody of his sentences was a really a wonder to encounter: for example, he fluently and superbly highlighted these “ris”, “size” “least” and “chan” in the following phrase: “the characteristics emphasizing the least amount of change…”

But all of these variations of his speech were touched upon ever so slightly, his voice like fingers and feet playing some moving and intelligent piece while pressing the damper pedal.

Carl talked to the void. He talked with the void. He listened to the void. He and the void conferenced together.

He spoke to us, for sure. But, I imagine, if pushed, he would admit that he and we were all a part of the void, the vast emptiness of space.

“It isn’t so much that THINGS are like they are which amazes me; it is that things are LIKE they are which amazes me. Out of all the infinite possibilities (he held on to the “in” in “infinite” ever so well), it is the one possibility we behold in the world we live in and which is the subject of our research which never fails to astound me; indeed, it is the obtained world which is the subject of our hopes and dreams of humans.” He wouldn’t attach an “h” to the word “human.” That meant he had to have a different letter start this word, and he chose “y” for this task; therefore, “human” became “yuman.”

We yumans loved him all the more for his pet name for us.

Carl listened to the void. It spoke to him from primordial ages; he listened ever so intently. The void said, “Microorganisms have the ability to defy laws and become more complex versions of themselves.” Carl always nodded humbly when the void would speak. He did not want to interrupt; or worse, he did not want to question. The void said, “That is not what many other people have concluded, but the truth of what I say is also beautiful, and the randomness of the world is made ever more beautiful by the RANDOMNESS of it.” He held onto this lovely word for a perfect amount of time and no more.

Sometimes the void seemed to speak dogmatically, but due to other factors, and as I’ve mentioned, Carl never questioned the void. He loved the void and wanted others to love it as well.

He and the void had never parted ways and probably never would. They needed each other and Carl, with his mellifluous voice which spoke so rhythmically to yumans, wants us to see our need for the void, too. Do you see your need for the void, O yuman?

Let me repeat, “Do you see your need for the void, O yuman?”