The Wayfarer.

An iceberg in New York.


Below the concrete, under the waves of rolling automobiles, knowledge sways from mahogany bookshelves.

Schools of well-to-do librarians duck and weave, putting this there, that over here, and oops, up off the ground, and back on top.

They stop in the corridors to talk.

“Seen that gentleman devouring the knowledge at the large reading table?”

“Yes. Every week. Peculiar. What’s he read?”

“I never ask.”

Elevators transfer knowledge to the room above as it is called for. A bell rings. A door opens. And people are served.

They feast on the knowledge. Gobble it up. Smoosh their faces in its pages and swallow it whole.

“Delicious!” They say. “This knowledge is the very best. But where does it come from? I only ever hear that little bell ring, that little door open.”

“Ah! Under your feet is an elaborate eco-system. That’s what I’m told.”

“Fascinating. Just fascinating. There’s nothing better than this here knowledge. Nothing better at all.”

09/25/11 -- Writing -- 0 Comments

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