The book I picked up and found my Self in read thus:
I cannot be certain how long I stood in the same place, here on ice, in stasis, waiting for instructions on how to tame the words that flew from me and create with them a narrative of some reliability. Most likely it was squezzillion times infinity. I felt the urge to go and do things. I had the words and language surging crazily around me leaving neon green vapour trails, but they never seemed to form into a coherent and vital plot. I began to hallucinate. The moon waxed and waned on numerous occasions, which means something in your world, but was out of sync with nature and the fundamentals of time in mine.