Someone once told me this world is another world's hell, that the creator made this world and forgot about it. The countless crimes that are ravaging the human body and soul, even as these words find their mark, seem to drive in that rusty knife of an impression. It seems like the world suddenly turned upside down, that somehow, the rules of truth and goodness don't apply anymore. Maybe that's why we tell stories; to know ourselves, understand why we do the things we do, find some kind of light that will dispel the shadows, and, inform us once and for all, that they were only shadows. I knew my first book would start with a Creation Story, about thirty years before I wrote it. Whether it was seeing the tattered, illustrated book of Genesis sitting beside the equally and severely thumbed The Descent of Man, and Selection in Relation to Sex by Charles Darwin, that sowed the first seed, I cannot tell. What I can tell, though, is that I wrote it to see if by the end of the effort I might not be able to catch, from the centre of the black hole of a spinning dying star, the infinitely blue-shifted light of the universe. The Bending of Strong Forms is a glimpse of that blue-shifted light.