Big Bang
When the absolute night imploded from a sheer excess of boredom and sameness, when the highest pitch could grow no higher the fattest cow no fatter the meanest dog no meaner the saddest song no sadder and the drunkest lord of all no drunker, when the dervish projects were finally completed and the laundry carefully folded for the last time and the few remaining invisible haloes winked out in a darkness thicker than coal, it was a moment for the mystery of lines of caves and sunlight wombs and the sentimental bebop rooms of mothers who might have been angels faster than the speed of light
who might have invented the first music who might have seen the original color who might have shed the tear that became an ocean, who might have uttered the first word and laughed the laugh that caused the apoplectic happenstances of birth to become a torrent of touches and dreams, and the pitiful desperation of logic to shatter itself with its own echoes and conundra upon the skulls of the unborn actors waiting for the unborn audience to appear somewhere there in the hypnagogic wilderness where it all supposedly started.
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