chrisbhanlon

A great mind was poised.

Concentrated in its thoughts was a great goal to achieve.

It judged the goal more likely to fail than succeed but started the process anyway.

It would need to surf down in that pre instant the resulting cataclysm.

It did.

And then.

In the only opportunity it would ever have.

It created structure, it palmed and deflected cause trails that would weave ahead as its will toward the goal.

The intellect, wove in this way a thread of influence ahead, all it could do.

That shifting thread broke through and shattered the very mindless indifferent chaos it had created.

If the goal was achieved it was achieved right then. If the goal failed it failed right then,

Nothing else would ever change.

Would the intellect’s goal be fulfilled. If so what would that goal turn out to be?

The days roll into the next, sunsets come and go, this evening’s cloud frieze of broken shapes comes in from the west. White haired gent who could be a banker is in actual fact a musician; he is at the kerbside where the street has been taped off; his name is Rat Scabies; he stares dreamily at a piece of aubergine night sky while he waits for my taxi to pull up.

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