Evasive, perhaps, stoic, balding eye shadows, mimicking a priest, a preacher, a church—at once, and once again. The repetitive nature of the thin, mildly attractive figure head, striding recklessly through doldrums, through gasps, through and back again: to home. We made it home, she remarks, casually, as though the cause, and yet again, the future, existed in turn by chance and yet by destined monologues. We create the future and the tomorrow. There is an odd and unfortunate miscalculation in the culture of the modern era, he says. He being partially responsible to her. Is it irresponsible? That would, again by vague definitions, demand importance, and, yes, the future again would become, would be, vital, necessary, important to us and to them, to both of them. It is an odd conversation, a discourse of synonyms, many many synonyms, doubled over metaphors, English class in the second year, maybe the first year, define in like terms. No, mathematics class. They were together, right next to one another and, he admits frequently, the second class, the later class proved to have better attendance better commitment and co-operation. I enjoy co-operation. The faculty board switched models, mathematics, science. Yet, as modeling continues, he is speaking about the past. I don’t even think he is considered the president, really, not really. The county has given up on him, allowed him to meander the gardens unbothered. There is another scenario, brewing, carefully concocted, in senate situation rooms. Evasive, always, but its relevance is minimal, un-noteworthy. Sleepless and rash caricatures, then, eventually, acceptance. It is enough that there are men, even women, dead in the street on the south side of second and Wabash. Bleeding because they were shot in the heart. Twelve of them bleeding out of the heart, modern suicide, social suicide, one against the other, looking alike, acting alike, not alike. There is still so much good things to say, and being partially included in the modern perspective, in the next great society, and never inattentive, somewhat cautious, he concludes with great care, glee and abandon: there is not a time that is unlike the greatest and the least greatest of these times.
It is Bartleby, the scrivener. I think I’d rather not.
Everywhere, it is, you see, he admits. It isn’t of any significance, none at all, not any longer, everything, all of that over there, is something else, something that we cannot even begin to detail, not yet. When the old habit of observing the universe finally broke down, when the man with the hat at the center eventually scoffed: it is a miracle that these little creatures do not care much about anything but forward—forward, forward. You’d think, maybe once in a while, stopping would be revolutionary.
I think I’d rather not.