It seemed a quiet day in the Never-Ending. Flossets of lassitude floated
about the Author's head. (Flossets? you might ask - ah, there's a secret).
Nothing or Not Very Much had curled up in a corner, dozing like a worn-out
puppy. Pieces of paper danced in the air, as they tumbled, performing a
ballet on unattentiveness. With sublime effort, with supreme attempt, the
Author raised his speaking glass to his unfocused eyes. That is glass as in
mirror although it is not clear who or should it be whom it showed.
It said the markets were down, equities were troubled, an endless clamour of
egos waited at the doors of compassion, the cheese sandwich had gone stale,
a blue star in Lyrae would soon go supernova and it would be a Good Idea to
Do Something. The Author almost stirred.
I stood at the doorway, contemplating its always openness, notebook in hand,
waiting for an interview.
Waiting as ever always waiting on what?
Then He looked at me: 'Eternity', he said, 'it sucks'.
Best
Dave
David Bircumshaw
Leicester, England
Home Page
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