Harp

Fingers dance on the strings, dancing to the beat of the very music they create; an infinite loop.

“He makes things not as they should be.”

So many strings that they hum like an orchestra in their own little world; atoms stretched like prisoners on a rack.

“I am the only man who has managed to remain sane.”

The fingers are gathering speed, approaching some great climax.

“Think about it!”

They accelerate, faster, faster, faster!

“It’s simple logic.”

The Big Crunch.

“I’m not a villain, I’m a-“

The Big Bang.

The tired old man licks his bloodied finger, probing the wound where the snapping string sliced through his skin.

He ponders thoughts that no man should.

“Doesn’t it make so much sense?”

 

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