Two Black holes collided and ate each other without really affecting the fabric of Space-Time, though that has nothing to do with our story.
There is a disturbance in the River of Time, wallowing through the sludgy rising tides in the Sea of Life; churning undefined particles from the beginning to the end of the roots of the Tree of Knowledge, hoping to prevent a young lady purchasing an apple. Neutrinos cascading impossibility across the National Lottery Alpha male, as he sits manspreading on the Moscow metro! How many bangs before the big one?
We asked Werner but he wasn’t sure.
Is the seashore?
By some trick of the light Fandango, a beautiful Kazak maiden finds herself selling sea shells on the sea, sure that she has no idea what happened last Tuesday, or if improbability actually exists. Yesterday they were Hawking radiation down the market – only sixty nine and eleven a pint. A Blue Faced Mandrill stalked the aisles of the supermarkets in Nuneaton, while Storks sat on isles of fish with none eaten. And housewives turned to fisticuffs over packs of toilet roll.
It was chaos – or at least that was the theory.
Was somebody fiddling with Time? If so could they come and fix my clock as it´s always just quarter past. A random Dairy Farmer landed in Casablanca and threw some milk in my face shouting “how’s that for past your eyes!”
It was six o´clock somewhere and three girls from Kirkby were talking about buns in ovens and the best way to see how much oil could a gumboil boil, if a gumboil could boil oil.
Nobody in this reality had a clue what was happening, but that´s not unusual as the author is totally lost too. Meanwhile the Science guy ate a cream pie from a drive by, but he was shy, so he looked at the sky. Then Chaos Dwarves roamed confused in a plastic reality controlled by Ragnor Lothblok as he tried his best to define the square root of minus one.
It was now seven pm and someone was voiding their bowels as they travelled from Jetrock to Blackstone on a Roller Coaster Sandwich, hoping to be free. And the boy with the big bum wrote the tune whilst the daft one wrote the lyrics. A trio of ceramic birds flew in from Wanenka, via the Earlsdon Cottage, and made a big noise for the Russian bird. Perhaps now was the time that things would happen. Hopes ran high on Kok Tobe as we exchanged books about nothing; hers was just an empty notebook. I said thanks as I have a wonderful collection of empty notes and now I have somewhere to store them.
Someone set my watch a few hours ahead and I have not caught up with it yet. Would it affect our latest Quest? Probably not, as reality is stuck in a hyperbolic loop, hoping it would shine more than it would cosh. And Pretty Boy Luke carried an accumulator, as Swifty disassembled an alternator in an attempt at entering an alternative reality.
By 8 pm the crowds were really moving.
Cold breath hung in the air as small faces turned to heaven asking for all or nothing. Maybe there is an intersection of Chi Lines with Blackpool Tramlines waiting to disassemble the parody of the human paradox; a possible rhyme crime on the Seven Open Lotuses.
Or was that just an Open Lotus Seven?
Maybe it was a Westfield coming in from left field.
An event horizon has led to a horizontal event – I can´t get out of bed. Hawking radiation is creating a fillip with Prince Philip and his canteloupes, while his son chases melancholy melons across the artificial backdrop of life in Britain. Metaphysical Scientists explain that there is no solution for greed, things just don´t add up the way they should. And the photon arrives, without a suitcase, at a marvellous hotel in Blackpool, explaining to the mesmerised receptionist that he is just travelling light.
Who really cares?
Things are not as they should be on Uranus (I´m sure you know the feeling); someone is fiddling with Time; jiggling about with the quantization of wormholes (how many would you like Madam?); disturbing the elasticated fabric of the raggedy arsed eternal soldier as he wends his way through the Battles of the Multiverse. Maybe it was God playing dice with the Universe, though some deny the possibility. Maybe God was spinning a roulette wheel with a few Russians and they were betting on red all the Time.
Is Isis buying ices for Osiris?
Eventually we will see that nothing really matters, not even matter, as the four thousand Gods race for pole position.
Pole position? – was the Pope a catholic?
Good, I’ll have a pint of that then.
But then he said nothing is impossible while he sat there doing nothing.
A new year ran in like an Iranian, clutching at straws as the word play became mixed with the world play on May day, hoping against hope as he grabbed a bar of soap and then shut up the shutters of the shop. And as the hope turned to a soap on a rope, they prayed the feckin narrative would begin…