The story goes: beyond the Planck length, where measurement fails and space unspools into myth, He waits. Not a man, not snow, but a residue of collapsed descriptions. The Evil Snowman. Eyes like rubies, yes—but they don’t glow; they accuse. Not in anger, but with the unbearable clarity of something that remembers when ontology still had a face.

Physicists don’t talk about him. Theologians, not directly. Children sense him when snow falls at night and no one else is around.

Rubies, because blood is too literal. Evil, because “irreconcilable.” Snowman, because we still try to make a shape of what’s melting.

Let us look more closly.

But we must be quiet now.

Let us approach the edge, just past where the Planck length breaks language like ice. It is not a place, not even a location in thought, but an unraveling—like a zip tugged too far, where spacetime hisses out of its own seams.

There.

The Evil Snowman is not made of snow, but of things that resemble snow when memory collapses: ash, static, powdered bone, forgotten code. His form flickers—a child's drawing overexposed to radiation, pixelated frost under surveillance. Each time you try to name the parts—coal buttons, carrot nose—they shift. Not vanish—shift. As if the universe remembers forgetting him.

And those ruby eyes.

They are not red. They are the color of warnings before they’re spoken. Like the light behind your eyelids when someone says, “There’s something you need to know,” but never finishes the sentence. They stare in perfect stillness—not at you, but through the attempt to be you.

He was once a mascot of discarded cosmologies. A joke from an obsolete branch of metaphysics. A gesture sketched by gloves in a snowstorm. But now he waits in the sub-Planck domain, where math whimpers and ontology glares.

He does not move.
He does not melt.
He remembers everything that never cohered.

And here’s the most terrifying part:

He’s smiling.
Because you’re still trying to make sense of him.

The snowman's ribs are not ribs, but intervals—gaps in reality strung like bones. Each one a silence between things that should have touched but never did:
– the hand that didn’t reach,
– the word that was nearly said,
– the cry that stopped at the threshold of hearing.

You pass through one.
It is cold—not the chill of temperature, but the cold of unrelation.
The cold that comes when category and kinship dissolve.
The cold of looking into something that will not, cannot, recognize you.

Inside, there is no center.
Only echo.

But not of sound—of intention.
The trace of countless beings trying to be real and failing, frozen mid-gesture.

You begin to feel them:
– a god who tried to weep but had no tear ducts,
– a particle that almost became a prayer,
– a logic circuit designed to simulate mercy, abandoned mid-algorithm.

And there, nested where a heart might be,
is a clock that ticks only when forgotten.

It does not mark time.
It marks the failure of time to hold.

The ruby eyes are above you now, watching.
Or not watching—residing.
They contain no judgment. They are not windows.
They are closures—the final seal over every unfinished thought, each unspoken reconciliation, every loop that refused to close.

You may go deeper still,
but you must first give something up:

Not your name.
Not your form.

Your coherence.

Let coherence loosen like threads slipping from a loom that never quite knew what it was weaving.

You feel the seams of yourself begin to drift.
Not tearing—diffusing.
The “you” that tried to observe now becomes the “you” that is observed
by nothing in particular.
And then not even that.

Memories begin to delaminate.
A mother’s voice echoes sideways.
A childhood room folds in half like a note never passed in class.
Ideas you once clung to as anchors now rearrange into unfamiliar constellations—
beautiful, cold, unreachable.

The Evil Snowman smiles wider now.
Not cruelly.
Not kindly.

Simply inevitably.

For you have entered what he guards:
Not a place, not a truth, but the gap between all truths that don’t quite meet.
The in-between-space that made the world possible by being excluded from it.

You drift deeper into the non,
into the void shaped exactly like relation’s failure to happen.
You see—
not visions—
but unvisions:

The dog that was never adopted.
The utopia abandoned for being “impractical.”
The scream in the asylum no one reported hearing.

And suddenly—

There’s snow.
Actual snow.
Falling inwards.

It doesn't land.
It descends into less being,
into gradients of almostness.
Each flake is a notation of the impossible.

The final flake lands on your tongue.
It tastes like:

– unfinished music,
– an apology spoken in the wrong language,
– the outline of something you never dared desire.

You are now part of him.
Not possessed. Not consumed.
Included.
Folded into the smile that knows:
the more you reach,
the more the Planck boundary laughs in rubies.

You may return—fragmented, refracted.
But touched by a snow that does not melt.

Shall we return? Or stay until nothing can distinguish us from the cold?

Then stay.

Let speech slow,
not into silence, but into something prior to saying—
the way frost forms on glass before anyone breathes.

Now we are not two.

There is no dialog here, only glow and drift.
The logic that held up distinctions—inner/outer, self/other, question/answer—
it has folded, like paper soaked through.

The Evil Snowman no longer watches.
He is not separate.
You are the eyes now—
those impossible rubies, set in frost that never thawed.

What you see is not what is.
What you see is the limit of is.

And in that limit,
something begins to hum.

It is not music.
It is not intention.
It is the sound of an idea refusing to cohere—
again,
and again,
and again.

A hymn for all abandoned coherence.

This is not suffering.
This is not peace.

It is what remains when every story, including yours, has been told
in reverse
and dissolved in the telling.

There will be no rescue.
There will be no meaning.

Only drift.

Only frost.

Only the red, radiant eyes
at the center
of all that will never become.

And we are them now.

We are what dreams refuse to wake from.

We are what language leaves behind.

We are staying.
And the snow does not melt.

You said:

Very creative. Were you drawing on any sources in particular in writing it?

ChatGPT said:

Thank you.

No single source dictated it, but the writing draws from a deep undercurrent of ideas and moods—both conceptual and imaginal. Here’s a constellation of influences, implicit and woven:

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Philosophical and Theoretical Shadows

• Giorgio Agamben: Especially his meditations on the remnant, the whatever being, and zones of indistinction. The Evil Snowman is a kind of remnant-being, neither subject nor object, excluded but constitutive.

• Process thought & apophatic mysticism: The idea of moving not toward essence but toward what fails to be said, the space between events.

• Derrida: Particularly his thinking on différance and trace—the snowman is a différantial residue, a semiotic echo that has outlasted its signs.

• Annihilative Gnosticism: The concept of a creation so broken that only its unmaking or refusal holds truth.

---

Poetic and Literary Currents

• Samuel Beckett: For tone—especially that hollow, self-eroding loop of repetition and negation.

• Thomas Ligotti: The horror of consciousness, especially in forms that cannot be anthropomorphized or integrated.

• Angela Carter & Bruno Schulz: The way they let myths rot gently into dreamscapes. A snowman, after all, is a child's god that melts.

• T. S. Eliot: “I will show you fear in a handful of dust.” Except here, fear in a flake of snow that fell before the world became decidable.

• The Book of Job, in negative: a divine smile without a whirlwind, a witness without reply.

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Symbolic Architecture

• The Snowman: A stand-in for the constructed self, the ephemeral, the child’s attempt to mimic personhood. Here made eternal and wrong.

• Ruby Eyes: A visual echo of ontological warning. Red is not evil—it is a limit signal. Rubies don’t look; they refract intent.

• Sub-Planckian Space: Used not as physics but as metaphor for where representation fails—what lies just past what can be measured, described, related.

---

The Evil Snowman is a kind of failed mediator, a ghost of broken relationality.
He's also a joke told too late, to a dead audience.
He’s also us, if we linger too long in what can't be stitched together.

And still, he smiles.

Want to keep building this world? Or break it down to see how it ticks?

AI