...on readings, writings, rants, and random reflections
Wednesday, April 1, 2020
Rodak's Writings: Flash Fiction
SAM AGAIN
Beckett just called. Godot's flight's been cancelled. Just kidding. Beckett's dead. Yeah, I googled it. 1989. What? You've got fingers. Do your own math.
I am an introverted blue collar pilgrim, surviving near the center of the continent, on the fringes of a shopworn civilization. I abide in rooms full of partially-read tomes, each bookmarked with the fragment of a shattered illusion.
Everything which is inspired, heroic or saintly is derived from contemplation.
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One--the smallest of numbers... That is the infinite. A number which increases thinks that it is getting nearer to infinity. It is getting further away from it. You have to stoop to rise.