Hail to the power of the printed word.
All hail the permanency of the press.
Ah! but how evanescent the jewel vision in the mystic lotus.
This is the chronicle of a bubble bursting in the ooze of
Chronos: a word portrait of an old man's waste matter.
And now... for the plot.
There is no furniture in my mind.
I can't sit down anywhere for a smoke.
I can't find a couch on which to confess my complexes.
I am not at home.
Home, as we all know, is where the heart is.
My heart might be in my stomach.
On a transplant bench.
On a valentine card.
It ought to be on Earth.
We're ready to believe that much.
Well, my ears are on my face.
And that's a fact, as far as I can tell.
But my face - I've left it in too many mirrors.
Mirrors are easily broken.
My mind is a white room.
A black light shines.
My soul is a darkness
Where a white light dwells.
I am day and night.
In a night and a day one could be all time.
Which isn't much.
Time runs out.
Sandflow beachtide hourglass soon gone.
Size is no measure of volume.
One is not less than many.
When one becomes many,
Many become small.
When small, one is a little too many.
And many are none at all.
Oh what a sudden wonderment you underwent
When you discovered the truth about digits.
Never have you felt dumber or number -
Knowing that there are giants and there are midgets,
And that size is no measure of volume.
Here's something else to ponder:
Mass doesn't really matter.
The key to the mystery
Watch where you put your foot.
Don't let the firm ground fool you.
The land yawns.
Your tracks are sucked into the canyons of undersea
You are here by courtesy of the Cosmos, Inc.
Don't insult our presence.
Your absence of faith is a truancy of the spirit.
But hold it!
It's a bit too late