A series of poems + prose conjured from the minds of J. Evan Rogers + Bailey Gaus

The Contrarian did not appear—he was discovered, as one discovers a flaw in reasoning only after depending on it.

He stood where the Alley of Sincerity narrowed into something less like a path and more like a decision already made.

“You’ve come far enough,” he diagnosed.

The Vermilion Kittens circled him without reverence. One hissed. One slept. One dissolved halfway through a blink and returned differently colored.

“They are not guides,” he motioned to the walls, nudging a Kitten aside with a shoe that made no sound. “They are rehearsals.”

The Alley stretched, or pretended to. Its walls—if they were walls—leaned inward as though listening.
“Sincerity is only convincing when observed,” he said. “Tell me, who is watching you be sincere?”
There was no answer, which pleased him. 

“And the Wall of Reason,” he said, almost kindly, “is a marvelous invention. Nothing passes through it—not even error. Especially not error. It keeps you very safe inside what you already believe.”

At this, the Alley bent. Not visibly, but undeniably. A step forward resembled a step already taken.
One of the Vermilion Kittens led onward. Another led back. A third insisted there had never been a direction at all.

The Contrarian sighed deep and hot, not with frustration, but with recognition.

“You were told to proceed,” he said. “But not what proceeds you.”

He gestured, and for a moment, the Wall of Reason could be seen—not ahead, but everywhere at once, thin as smoke and thick as doctrine.

Something struck it—from which side was unclear—and the sound was identical to agreement.

“Listen carefully,” he said, lowering his voice as if approaching honesty. “If the Pendulum of Morality truly swung side-to-side, you would never mistake motion for progress. But it does not.”

As if summoned by contradiction, the Pendulum revealed itself—distant, immense, and wrong. It lurched forward, then back, then forward again, like something reconsidering its own premise.

“You were warned about deviation,” he said. “You were not warned about design.”

The Alley narrowed further. Or perhaps it focused.
“There is a simpler path,” he said at last. “Not easier—simpler. Fewer symbols. Fewer intermediaries. No performances for unseen audiences.”

A pause, precise and deliberate.

“You may continue,” he allowed, gesturing toward the multiplying kittens and the receding Wall. “Many do. It is a very convincing system.”

Then, almost as an afterthought:
“Or you may refuse to arrive where you were told you are going.”

The Vermilion Kittens stopped moving.
Not in unison—never in unison—but in suspicion.
The Alley did not change.
Which was, for the first time, noticeable.

And somewhere—whether ahead, behind, or within—the Pendulum failed to decide, and called that balance.

(Forth to Pt V.)

(Back to Pt III.)