Blottisham’s Accidental Mastery

(Months later. A modest study, sunlight falling on neat stacks of papers. Blottisham paces, muttering to himself. Quillibrace and Elowen are not present; this is a solitary scene.)

Blottisham

I will not speak nonsense today. I will explain clearly. I will…

(He sits, begins scribbling, muttering numbers, diagrams, arrows — entirely unaware that he is, in fact, doing exactly what Quillibrace and Elowen would approve.)

Blottisham (reading aloud to himself)

Entropy is not disorder. Energy is not lost. The arrow of time is simply the gradient of relational availability. Configurations continue along paths that are easy; the improbable is… improbable.

(He stops mid-sentence. Stares at the page.)

Blottisham

…Did I just… say that correctly?

(He checks the diagrams. Cross-references the notes. The words align with the relational ontology perfectly. He frowns.)

Blottisham

This… is correct. Entirely… correct. And I did not even mean to.

(He throws the pen onto the desk. Leans back. Muttering grows incredulous.)

Blottisham

I… I have explained the universe properly… and yet… I am furious with myself.

Blottisham

Furious… because I have had no authority.

No law to enforce.

No push.

No metaphysical officer.

Only… gradients, availability, and overwhelmingly probable continuations.

(He groans. Wraps himself in a blanket of mild indignation.)

Blottisham

And yet — yes, it is correct. Damn it. All correct.

(He sits in silence. Outside, the universe continues its indifferent dance. Ice melts, wine swirls, entropy marches along its unconcerned slope.)

Blottisham

…Well, then. At least the tea is hot.

(Curtain.)