The Club

In the library at The Club I found a book. I intend to acquire it. That is, to steal it. No one must know but God and me. It does not matter if this is a sin. It would be a greater sin to let it go into some incinerator when The Club goes bankrupt. Thou shalt steal what will otherwise be stolen by Satan.

The book is full of meditations. Pictures are sculpted in four dimensions. There are primordial sensations, tastes, and smells. Lost in a fractal cosmos, you're significant, wanted, loved by the total. Yet you are empty -- when evil dies in you, you feel an initial sense of loss. Black holes have swallowed all that ever was, all that is, and all that ever shall be. The cosmos is a black hole with a radius of ten billion light years. Things fall into a black hole but never come out. Time stops where space ends and the black hole begins. Inside the black hole, time goes in reverse. We see an expanding cosmos but it is imploding, actually. More actually, it doesn't make any difference. Time has no direction. What ever made us think it did? Past and future are mirror images. God is confused. Future is past. In is out. Collapse is explosion. Sin is righteous.

In the front of my book, the one that belongs to The Club, but that I will steal because The Club cannot care about it, because The Club is about to go bankrupt, because the officers don't care about The Club even though they think they do, there is written, in ball-point pen, the following:

For Woodrow
with gratitude for many delightful
and intriguing conversations

-- Chuck

This is crossed out in pencil, and below, also in pencil, are inscribed the following symbols:

< decimal point >   < numeral five > < numeral zero >

Copyright 1998, 1999, 2000 by Francisco Carrera.