b.- d.

The dash is vast. It contains multitudes.
What if awareness, the little drifter, little stray

Gazzaniga et alia chase around our brains,

Actually is not that tiny confabulator, the interpreter,
But only the grail, only the cup-holder of all confabulation?
When it seems to go away, it does not go away.
It lets go. And when it lets go of everything, even the multitudes,
Even that sweet little vagary that it has so loved, left pale and alone,

It sleeps. How long does not matter,
Literally, does not matter, is immaterial. It becomes

Nothing
In the holy, truest sense,
That not which does not exist, that naught
So that anything ever exists at all.