Velocirooster adminensis :bc: on Nostr: You continue to pull books off the shelf, tearing them open and circling random words ...
You continue to pull books off the shelf, tearing them open and circling random words in sharpie.
"Maybe it's every fourth word, or maybe every sixth—No wait! What about a Fibonacci sequence!"
"Listen: you have to let this go."
"What? No way—not Billy The Giraffid!"
You look down at the miniature okapi cradled in your hands. He's wearing a little pilgrim hat.
"He's my new best friend!"
The park ranger holds up a tape measure to Billy.
"Sorry, but it's under six inches. You'll have to throw it back."
"But I caught it myself!"
You hold up a fat baby with curly whisps of hair and a thick greasy smile.
The guy in the row behind you shakes his head, yelling against the current of the roar of the crowd.
"It has a tracking device in it. This isn't baseball; if you try to leave with it, stadium security will come after you."
You clutch the baby to your chest.
"Over my dead body!"
The mourners file past, peering down into your casket. Some faces show genuine grief, some seem distracted, most just look bored.
None of this interests you, though—the only thing you notice is that you can see up everyone's nostrils, peering into the vacuous interiors of their skulls, the dense emptiness of unbeing.
You feel a slight snap as you become unstuck from your body and you are falling into that vast nothingness. The darkness envelopes you, then scintillates with an electric purple pulse that hums with the buzz of a billion bustling baby bumble bees.
"Well, I'm not sure if we have any books specifically about baby bumble bees, but you might find what you're looking for in the Apiarial Arts section. It's just down that way, past the Starbucks.
You pull out your sharpie and lick your lips. I try to warn the Barnes and Noble employee, but there's no time.
"Maybe it's every fourth word, or maybe every sixth—No wait! What about a Fibonacci sequence!"
"Listen: you have to let this go."
"What? No way—not Billy The Giraffid!"
You look down at the miniature okapi cradled in your hands. He's wearing a little pilgrim hat.
"He's my new best friend!"
The park ranger holds up a tape measure to Billy.
"Sorry, but it's under six inches. You'll have to throw it back."
"But I caught it myself!"
You hold up a fat baby with curly whisps of hair and a thick greasy smile.
The guy in the row behind you shakes his head, yelling against the current of the roar of the crowd.
"It has a tracking device in it. This isn't baseball; if you try to leave with it, stadium security will come after you."
You clutch the baby to your chest.
"Over my dead body!"
The mourners file past, peering down into your casket. Some faces show genuine grief, some seem distracted, most just look bored.
None of this interests you, though—the only thing you notice is that you can see up everyone's nostrils, peering into the vacuous interiors of their skulls, the dense emptiness of unbeing.
You feel a slight snap as you become unstuck from your body and you are falling into that vast nothingness. The darkness envelopes you, then scintillates with an electric purple pulse that hums with the buzz of a billion bustling baby bumble bees.
"Well, I'm not sure if we have any books specifically about baby bumble bees, but you might find what you're looking for in the Apiarial Arts section. It's just down that way, past the Starbucks.
You pull out your sharpie and lick your lips. I try to warn the Barnes and Noble employee, but there's no time.