For sixty days and sixty nights, Enoch wrote without stopping.
The archangel Pravuil — heaven's own scribe, the wisest of all the archangels — dictated to him the totality of creation. Everything. The workings of heaven, earth, and sea. Every element, every passage, every movement. The thunderings of thunder. The courses of the sun and moon. The changes of the stars. The seasons. The years. The days. The hours.
The rising of every wind. The number of every angel. The formation of their songs.
And all human things — the tongue of every language, the pattern of every life, the commandments and instructions and sweet-voiced singings of heaven. Everything it was fitting for a mortal mind to learn, and much that was not.
When the dictation was complete, Pravuil gave Enoch a final command: "Everything I have told you, we have recorded. Now sit — and write all the souls of mankind. However many will ever be born. And the places prepared for each of them in eternity. For all souls are prepared before the foundation of the world."
Every soul that would ever exist — already accounted for. Already assigned a destination. Before the world was formed, before Adam drew breath, every human life had been mapped and measured and given a place in the architecture of eternity.
Enoch sat for thirty days and thirty nights, writing continuously, and produced three hundred and sixty-six books — a library of heaven's secrets, dictated by an angel, transcribed by a man who had been dressed in the glory of God.