Wednesday, February 22, 2006

BERG 1 antwortet nicht


Very well, then. Here we are, crouched on the very brink of the imminent eschaton, searching our pockets for stray Toffos but finding only old bus tickets, the notes scribbled thereon having long since yielded to the great blurring that starts in the head and works outwards, ever outwards.

How long have we been ill now? asked Victor recently (still, strangely enough) referring to himself in the third person. Is that a survival mechanism, Victor?


Good heavens, man. You can't expect old Caroon to have the perspective to answer a boomerang of a question like that. He may have been through the Van Allen Belt in a vessel made of tinfoil and good intentions- he may have gazed down on the grainy old black and white earth from a bakelite rocketship that looked for all the world like a giant pen- but you can't expect a fellow to know what's going on in his own- his very own!- Dead Sea of a noggin.

The war of course, explains some of it.

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