(This is an excerpt from a novel I will write in the future when I am strapped to a chair during the Star Trek/Star Wars Wars of 2032. I will have placed it into a time capsule which I dug up in my backyard thirteen years ago. To the sound of cats sneezing.)
"Ah, the sound of cats sneezing!"
"Why do you say such things?" said I to the aetherized sky.
"Why do you require such explanations?" said the sky. Or did it?
Surely a talking sky was the least of my concerns. On a dying planet, a sky does not talk, but cries.
& on the fourth day, it rained buns.
"Is this the way you cry, my friend the talking sky?" said I to the bun-filled heavens.
"Jesus," replied the sky, "were you dropped on an obvious tree & hit every branch on the way down?"
"Let's us not argue let's," said I. "Instead, let's us listen to the music in the air let's."
But there was no more music to be heard. Instead, the avant guards made noises with the clipped samples from old, old informercials. What else could we do? We danced.
& on the seventh day, the world began its decades-long death rattle.
"Oh shit," said the sky.
But I was not sad. Not in the leastest.
"Ah," said the sky. "You fuckers with short lifespans get all the breaks."
"Tee hee," said I.
(Page ten may or may not appear some time in the past. You might want to wait, however, until it will be published nearly a quarter century from now.)
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