If there is to be a story or a cosmos, the whole must be divided into parts; the body must be divided into genders and generations. This originating division is remembered as a crime; the children will not see the light of day unless the primal parent is cut in twain. Death is punishment for the crime of being born. If there is no desire to give birth and thus a desire to be born, there is neither crime nor punishment.

It is the Father's part to be killed. He must, for there to be a beginning, be missing from the play. He is killed by the sons, in conspiracy with the Mother. If these shameful acts were not carried out the play would not begin, there would be no difference between inside and outside, or, before and after. "If you can't do the time, don't do the crime." History, as the fantasy of Western Civilization, is this story of a murder, and/or a castration of the Father, and the generations of guilt that follow, until the end of the story. Freud uncovers the story in the fantasies of his patients.

The "time-space continuum," as human experience, is a story. We are, all of us, characters in a drama. But there is, Oh Monks, an experience that is other than the story. Dying is the way into this otherness.