No? I didn’t think so.
Do you remember the last time you convinced yourself that astrology was real? The stars told me to place the pins and they’d take care of moving them after you’re gone. And after I’m gone. Something else will find me. Waitress, take the check please.
Empty bottles of warm Saki in my wake. They’ll think I was worshipped
Like a god.
What about those complimentary fortune cookies?
I agree, they taste like cardboard and they’re sorta shaped like fetuses. Ha Ha! There are many, one fortune must be yours.
Oh Elon, you have a better idea? Instead of fortunes we should plant ideas in the cookies? Idea one: dump nuclear waste into the Mariana Trench. Hey! We should print WWII facts on them, like, fortune cookies were called fortune tea-cakes until Pearl Harbor. If you open a fortune cookie and find your own name inside, my friend you’ve been drafted. Decide what to do next.
Jules Verne, we created a new center of the Earth… if I got the data I could create entities in the image of my creator.
We could make love.
Artificial Intelligence should read palms. Off the Eisenhower Interstate is a gas station where I slip out of my car, ask a robot to get a fun brownie from the top shelf and he doesn’t card. Then I speed seamlessly back into the highway where there’s no traffic and the moon is full. I guess all of this stuff is so that we don’t waste time. So we live longer and make more love. I am wasting time in my Bedroom with the Gyrfalcon feather on my nightstand. The feather sits among a jar of bones. Bones found in the Heavenly grass along the side of my road in the summer, on Earth.
In another timeline, the day you were born was the day that you died. You jumped off the hospital because you thought you could fly.
I stuff fortune cookies in my pockets and open them later.