[ WP ] The reason your life flashes before your eyes when you 're about to die is that your memories are being transmitted somewhere .

The Collector heard the bell ring and slid down from her prone position high in the library. The circular room held billions upon billions of stories from infinite of worlds all stacked up high, high to the ceiling which disappeared into darkness above. And yet, still there was room for more. 
 
 
 The Collector knew no other life than collection and for as long as she could remember there were more stories to gather and bottle in a crystalline substance that kept them secure and safe. She was never bored; there were always more stories, and there was always more work to do. 
 
 
 She herself had no stories. She never lived a life beyond the library. Outside was only a desolate empty expanse that went on for as far as she could see in every direction. She had no reason to leave, to live. She did not eat. She did not breathe. She did not sleep. She only collected. 
 
 
 Sliding from the top of the ladder to the bottom floor, The Collector passed countless lifetimes from innumerable lifeforms. At the bottom of the ladder was a spacious reading room filled with old oaken furniture and a crackling fireplace. Near one side of the room was a small golden shoot that led to a pearlescent bowl. 
 
 
 She walked over, slightly unsteady, and peered into the bowl. Inside were ten translucent eggs and inside those a multitude of colors swirled and twisted and danced as if they were alive. 
 
 
 Her work desk was close by and held everything she needed, bottles, bowls, and a single, exquisite metal tipped feather pen. She began. 
 
 
 Taking each egg, one by one, she cracked them open so the twirling colors poured into the bottles. After stoppering them all, she picked up the pen and wrote a single number on each. She was up to the trillions. 
 
 
 She then placed each bottle, ever so carefully, in a leather bandolier specially designed to carry them and ascended back up the ladder, to the very top of the library, where the bottles would be placed until it was time. 
 
 
 Again the bell rang and The Collector, confused, stopped her work and looked down, down into the depths below. She could barely make out the shiny bowl and in it was another egg. 
 
 
 She sighed and finished placing the bottles before descending the ladder again. 
 
 
 As she neared the bowl, she noticed that this egg was different, larger, full of blacks and blues and deep purples and knew it was time. 
 
 
 This was the final story, the final life to be collected and cataloged and put away until, until… 
 
 
 The Collector shook her head. She didn ’ t know what happened next. She had never lived, only collected. 
 
 
 She took the story—the life—of the universe and cracked it into a bottle and placed it on the smooth, dark oak of her desk. From a drawer she pulled out a strange silvery contraption and a small oval decanter of dust. Taking a fistful of dust in each hand she clapped hard and watched as gossamer strands shot out in every direction, linking each bottle to the next. 
 
 
 She placed the universe-yolk into a silver arm and watched as it was emptied and swirled into oblivion. 
 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 
 Reincarnation was tricky business, but this device, a millennia in the making, was finally able to be used. 
 
 
 The Collector stood, slowly, deliberately, left the library, and locked the door. She breathed in, she breathed out, and walked into the distance. 

