In a room smelling faintly of old books and aged oak and stale cheese, some friends gathered for a poetry reading. Andrei held his hands thoughtfully, trying to untangle the complex thoughts running through his head while pacing near a window of a cramped bookstore near Tokyo.
Andrei:
"This poem is twisted. No question about it. Its logic is a labyrinth that leads nowhere. You follow it long enough you will not come out more enlightened, merely depressed. We need vigilance to avoid all cul-de-sacs of despair."
Elijah:
"Or," Elijah countered, "you’re just trying to avoid the painful truth the poem brings up. Sometimes discomfort is the first sign of a deeper truth."
Jules:
"I could fancy a few twists myself, moi-même. Life without unexpected twists would be terribly bland. But really, all this talk of 'twisted' things has made me positively ravenous. Where are the crackers and cheese?"
Andrei:
"Damn it, Jules! We’re dissecting the rot of civilization—the literal decomposition of its moral fabric—and you’re hunting for appetizers?"
Jules:
"Oh, sorry... I was miles away—somewhere in the Alps, I think. I prefer bleu cheese myself. One must have a good culinary sense to endure crises, Andrei. It’s called standards."
Sunlight shimmers on silver
waters cascading over granite rocks...
. . . and where bears strike
with bone-crushing claws, catching fish.
Ellesha:
"No bleu cheese in this one, Jules. No mold. Nothing... cultivated."
Philyra:
"Green cheddar. Earthy. Bitter. It hits the tongue like a grudge."
Soo:
"The global economy is the cheese," she snapped, her hand making a sharp, guillotine motion. "A curdled block of billionaires represent greed. The bears? The salmon? They don't get a crumb. We’re all just waiting for the knife."
Outside, the huge megapolis roared on—unaware, unapologetic. Soo sat down in silence.