AuT-publication update 2

It is bitterly cold.  I am sick, I have a cold.  I am alone.
I'm sleeping on a recliner tonight.  There is a fire burning in the fireplace.
It is fighting a losing battle against the cold
There is a blanket and there is a rag I cough into
It is raining outside mixed with snow, it would be too dreary were the rain to be by itself.
I am thinking as I look into the dying flames, it is too cold to go out for more of the wet wood, that I don't live in the same place as you anymore.
I live somewhere behind the scenes that make up your life.  A place without time where you can look out and see the web that ties everything together, the dimensionless web of mathematical spirals and differentials fading into the past.  You can follow the web, but it is so tight that it falls together into the reality that you experience.  It becomes cold and rainy and warm and soft like the weather and your thighs.
The book...it isn't available yet.  It is the cover.  I tried to do something a little too fancy and I tried to fix it but I was too clever so it will probably be too fancy again and I'll have to try a third time.
I thought about aging.  I know what it is, but to understand it you have to look at all the bits of concentrated information that make it up.  First they are in the dimensionless place with me, then they are photons, with dimension and not really concentrated at all, then waves stretching out to infinity somehow, they are capable of great length although they have no dimension.  That stretching out is something they do until they break into photons as the carriers that hold each wave together get so tenuous in their consistency that they can no longer hold it together.  That perhaps is the first clue, because the photons, having no carriers to cling to (when they cling they become waves) have nothing to age against.  And then there is us, we age the same way, we turn into more active forms of information and and we stop aging so it is the slowing down for us that is age.  We rust and we die when we cease to move, that is aging, we turn to dust and we concentrate further.  In this way, if you think about it, aging is sort of the opposite of what you'd expect, not a falling apart, but a coming together.  Black holes must age terribly.  They must feel like I do looking into the web with my damp rag and the cold, my watery eyes and my cough, that doesn't keep me company but tortures me like my memories.