I lost my USB in the library. It has swallowed up that useful little thing and for that I resent it fiercely. Can't fault the library staff, though. I asked them if any red ones had been handed in this week, she rooted through a drawer and rather apologetically handed me the cap of my USB. So close and yet so far. This only confirms my suspicion that the computers here have eaten it.
Of course the librarians are not above suspicion. Perhaps they are aliens who, on receipt of my USB looked through its contents and discovered to their utter amazement that my John Donne essays, seemingly insignificant and frankly pedestrian according to earthly academic standards, to them form the missing final part of their ancient galactic constitution and supplying the final ammendments to their bill of rights, tricky to pin down on beings that are mainly gaseous and therefore straddle the divide between the physical and metaphisical existence.
Their writer, whose name is unpronounceable to all solid beings, was so unimaginably brilliant that on completion of his 100 volume political work he knew at once that he had created the solution to all life in the galaxy. Only peace and brotherly love could possibly exist between all beings in the galaxy under this great document, and possibly the universe itself. The laws of entropy would be reversed and the universe would hold itself together in perpetual motion fromtge good will of its blissful inhabitants.
It came as a shock only to him, that when he presented his life's work to the political leaders of the planet it went down like a balloon filled with Xenon. As political leaders from a long line of all patrician races, species and elements of the galaxy their fortunes all rested on arms dealing, and peace and brotherly love to them meant instant ruin. They imediately seized on the denser parts of the genius and threw him into a black hole, where, as a loose-particled element he was able to maintain a vague, coma like consciousness. They took his works, and to add insult to injury, used a heavily weighted interpretaion of its basic tennets, discarding the rest in fragments across the universe among only
the most primitive species known to them. Of these the most complex and politically fatal last
page was consigned to that most stupid and lumpish of creatures cursed with a pathetic consciousness: human beings. This was placed without thought into the unconscious of a budding poet, one Jack Donne. However his earthly intelligence was so far beneath their own that they could make out nothing that he wrote, less still realised his literary importance among the other ape-like creatures and that through his primitive writings the message of their genius gradually slipped into the unconscious of every bored English literature student in the world. They would be as surprised to discover that humans had processed this information than we would be on discovering existential longing in a mollusc.
Now our poor genius had disappeared, but he had not been forgotten. He had a few privileged disciples among the great academic institutions and they worried when he stopped collecting his awards, for he was meticulously polite in such instances. A few of the lesser known professors, fearing the worst, began a secret society to discover his fate, and they searched his home for evidence of his last and much rumoured work. The notes they found on post-its and shopping lists arranged in geometric patterns on the fridge were themselves so brilliant they guessed the danger of the work itself. They devoted their whole lives to its recovery and the lives of generations of other academics who would come to join them over the centuries.
In the subsequent military coup they all quietly faked their own deaths and escaped to the furthest and most primitive recesses if the galaxy, where to their astonishmbt they began to stumble upon traces of the very works they had sworn to find. As academics it is no surprise that the disguises adopted placed them where they could gain some small happiness- in libraries. They have gain a significant interest in the primitive works, for them it is like tracing the dawn of conscious thought.
Imagine their wonder on finding lodged within the rushed points and crude rhetoric the the key to decode the last and finest part of the work that became the work of their lives. This discovery will have brought about the last great battle of the galaxy, leading to either total annihilation or union of all life, which means the loss of my USB is part of a great destiny in the history of the galaxy and I'm not just some twonk who logged out of a library computer and forgot to take her USB containig her headshots, CVs and several essays.
The football was abysmal. Harriet and I got a little hysterical at 3-1 and opened the prosecco, the first toast at the wake of england's wildly overblown hopes. Now I'm heading home as quickly as possible to avoid the carnage.
Of course the librarians are not above suspicion. Perhaps they are aliens who, on receipt of my USB looked through its contents and discovered to their utter amazement that my John Donne essays, seemingly insignificant and frankly pedestrian according to earthly academic standards, to them form the missing final part of their ancient galactic constitution and supplying the final ammendments to their bill of rights, tricky to pin down on beings that are mainly gaseous and therefore straddle the divide between the physical and metaphisical existence.
Their writer, whose name is unpronounceable to all solid beings, was so unimaginably brilliant that on completion of his 100 volume political work he knew at once that he had created the solution to all life in the galaxy. Only peace and brotherly love could possibly exist between all beings in the galaxy under this great document, and possibly the universe itself. The laws of entropy would be reversed and the universe would hold itself together in perpetual motion fromtge good will of its blissful inhabitants.
It came as a shock only to him, that when he presented his life's work to the political leaders of the planet it went down like a balloon filled with Xenon. As political leaders from a long line of all patrician races, species and elements of the galaxy their fortunes all rested on arms dealing, and peace and brotherly love to them meant instant ruin. They imediately seized on the denser parts of the genius and threw him into a black hole, where, as a loose-particled element he was able to maintain a vague, coma like consciousness. They took his works, and to add insult to injury, used a heavily weighted interpretaion of its basic tennets, discarding the rest in fragments across the universe among only
the most primitive species known to them. Of these the most complex and politically fatal last
page was consigned to that most stupid and lumpish of creatures cursed with a pathetic consciousness: human beings. This was placed without thought into the unconscious of a budding poet, one Jack Donne. However his earthly intelligence was so far beneath their own that they could make out nothing that he wrote, less still realised his literary importance among the other ape-like creatures and that through his primitive writings the message of their genius gradually slipped into the unconscious of every bored English literature student in the world. They would be as surprised to discover that humans had processed this information than we would be on discovering existential longing in a mollusc.
Now our poor genius had disappeared, but he had not been forgotten. He had a few privileged disciples among the great academic institutions and they worried when he stopped collecting his awards, for he was meticulously polite in such instances. A few of the lesser known professors, fearing the worst, began a secret society to discover his fate, and they searched his home for evidence of his last and much rumoured work. The notes they found on post-its and shopping lists arranged in geometric patterns on the fridge were themselves so brilliant they guessed the danger of the work itself. They devoted their whole lives to its recovery and the lives of generations of other academics who would come to join them over the centuries.
In the subsequent military coup they all quietly faked their own deaths and escaped to the furthest and most primitive recesses if the galaxy, where to their astonishmbt they began to stumble upon traces of the very works they had sworn to find. As academics it is no surprise that the disguises adopted placed them where they could gain some small happiness- in libraries. They have gain a significant interest in the primitive works, for them it is like tracing the dawn of conscious thought.
Imagine their wonder on finding lodged within the rushed points and crude rhetoric the the key to decode the last and finest part of the work that became the work of their lives. This discovery will have brought about the last great battle of the galaxy, leading to either total annihilation or union of all life, which means the loss of my USB is part of a great destiny in the history of the galaxy and I'm not just some twonk who logged out of a library computer and forgot to take her USB containig her headshots, CVs and several essays.
The football was abysmal. Harriet and I got a little hysterical at 3-1 and opened the prosecco, the first toast at the wake of england's wildly overblown hopes. Now I'm heading home as quickly as possible to avoid the carnage.
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