Obtuse

M (Also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him and his divine seed): "How dare you accuse be of obtuse writing, you two-pence whore!!? What the f*** have you been smoking?"

Insignificant Aide (also known as Ia, curses unto her and her ignorant lot): "..."

M: "Do you know what I am? Have you any clue of my powers? I could have you vaporized in less than seventeen seconds, your worm!"

Ia: "Not this time, my lord. Not this time. I apologize for my lack of prudence."

2-dollar bill

There is snow on the peaks this afternoon. M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him) , however, is unfazed. His lack of a fear response heartens Ia, who trudges silently beside him, albeit a step behind.

It is as if his days are endless in number and his afternoons go on forever. M fears nothing, it seems, not even his voluminous stomach, which now hangs pendulous, reaching for mother earth. He feeds it with the quiet confidence of one who has seen worse times.

Ia interrupts his meal. "Tell me, wise one, why do our lives require constant movement?". M pauses, looks into the distance, beyond the frosty peaks, and thinks hard, as his jaws keep chewing. Ia, impatient, continues "Why cannot we be at the happy place forever?". M hears, but continues deeper down the sea of thought, all the way down to the murky depths where the conscious mind makes love to the sub-conscious.

M burps loudly, and they continue their journey again, their heads bowed, their noses to the earth, their steps conquering the icy mountains.

The future looks as bright as the dazzling afternoon.

White Room

"In the white room with black curtains near the station.
...
Ill wait in this place where the sun never shines;
Wait in this place where the shadows run from themselves
...
Ill sleep in this place with the lonely crowd;
Lie in the dark where the shadows run from themselves."

-- Jack Bruce and Pete Brown.

Ia waits among the millions of restless devotees who have waited days on end for a sighting of the lord. Their chants reverberate in the endless room. They sense that the moment is now near, the hour of revelation is here. Their hearts pound as they see visions of the lord of the fruit and the magical new harvest he will bless them with.

There is a reverence for the lord for the place they choose to wait, and for the wait itself. For the lord's words this day will forever alter the course of universe. The lord will deliver them from whatever it is they need to be delivered from.

At last, the bright lord descends from the sky. His words are not words.

They feel him speak;
a gleam in his eye;
not an utterance is missed;
not a syllable is a lie.

The lord is good,
the lord is clean,
the lord is a genius,
the lord is supreme.

The lord then unveils the monolith. All is quiet. Hearts stop beating, minds stop thinking.

A cuboid of divine proportions, black as the endless night; dark as the pits of Mordor. It is beyond comprehension, the quiet yet immense power this small device exerts over the minds of so many.

The lord is good,
the lord is clean,
the lord is a genius,
the lord is supreme.

At the lord's touch, the monolith springs to life. There is a collective gasp of admiration, as though his devotees will now burst into a billion little pieces, as though there is not enough admiration and devotion in the universe to shower this lord with. The puny lives of the teeming millions of devotees all seem to amount to naught in the face of this wondrous monolith.

It is the most divinely beautiful rock in the whole world.

Praise the lord of the fruit.

cycle

M is tired of the endless cycle. Of arbitrary days chosen to be celebrated as markers of the new year. This time around, M (also known as Dr. T, praise be unto him and his divine seed) has chosen to sail through unscathed. Through the mindless drinking, the inane revelry, the consumerist evil. M scoffs at the list of Ia's new year resolutions, written neatly on yellow paper with a permanent marker.