Avery Mann is one such thinker, who had used his thoughts on thinking to think himself to nearly every single one of the Guide’s excursions into the territories of Mental Space. But some will claim his clockwork thinking waxed beyond the abstract. He had a notable habit you see. He would click his tongue. He would click it when he was thinking, like a fan cooling a computer overclocking. And although he wasn’t in any way a clock of metal and glass, many would gossip that his baffling mannerisms left them unconvinced. This was especially so in Mental Space, where one cannot confidently assume a strict boundary between thought and form.

He is clicking now, his mind mid-way through the bottomless turtles. As the clicks come on, the people around him edge away as if they’ve heard a warning siren. They wonder with utter seriousness whether Avery will think until he erupts in madness at the principle of the infinite turtle-pile. Eyes grow wider and attention is drawn to Avery like a chain infection of yawns. The clicks clack faster as his mind raises its clip. Time couldn’t push him fast enough, so Avery ticks his own clock. The fast thinking Mann pushes time to keep up. His clicks are ticks on the second-hand arm of a wrist-watch no one is keen to own….

Avery stopped clicking.

People stopped gossiping.

Time pressed a palm to its face and pressed on.