“This can’t be true!  This is madness.  I—”

Soon, and except for the incessant buzzing of multiplying worlds zooming past at high speeds entering the Captain’s orifices and that of the monkeys, all that can be heard is a King-Clown chanting with his bells jingling.  There are no tambourines.  And this fool dances and chants.  And this fool chants and dances until all that is left standing is himself, ignorant of the eternity that is now enveloping his comrades and oblivious to the incessant buzz of worlds passing him by as if in the grandest or smallest scheme of all, he did not exist.

Soon the King-Clown begins ululating, wondering if singing like an Indian or a Swiss yodeller or mixing the two might be better.

Now, even there and then, King-Clowns of the best calibre must enjoy food, drink and a time to think of all things lightly; but when the intensity of the worlds relentlessly zooming past, swirling and speeding increases begin to tire this fool, fatigued, he throws his staff to execute a fated instant as the staff flies over the ship’s side into the flat dark waters, urging the wild worlds to stop their cantankerous search for fecund soils and to follow the disappearing staff, deep, deep into the thin and shallow, glassy surface.

Once its mission accomplished and all the worlds in this universe of strange have gone and been gobbled up, this fool’s staff rises once more and hovers upright, vibrating as if imbued with pride, as if its biggest accomplishment to date was to have helped nature breed itself.

To be continued…


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