I’d love nothing more than to have a team of scientists, dressed in full PPE, slowly pull out a never ending chain of colorful handkerchiefs from my ass while I’m on my knees in full clown regalia, with my face adorned with the honkiest red nose ever conceived. For hours, days, months, years, decades, this team of stunned scientists would pull more and more and more handkerchiefs, each covered in just a bit of uncomfortable mucus or slime of which the test results cannot confirm or deny whether it is human in origin. Like a cuckoo clock, every half hour, I would gyuck-a-hyuck giggle and laugh while honking my clown nose at an inhuman rate. What sanity hath thee left, scientists, after pulling my handkerchiefs for so long? As the generations pass, I would be kept, preserved as some grotesque abomination, a thing that must be hidden, but never destroyed. Yet still, brave men and women who dare to read the redacted files and notes of yore scrawled, in desperation, by those driven mad, yes, these foolhardy scientists will take to my chambers and pull those handkerchiefs once more. They will find no end to it. They will find no happiness, no satisfaction. They will find only the dull horror of the infinite.