27

27. And that little number, enclosed in a bubble, has been there since morning. You’d expect, on occasions like these, for it to morph incessantly as the day goes on, as the people come and go and the merry wishes sing in the once neglected hollow. But nothing like that has happened to mine. Mine has remained the same since morning, like a stubborn rock on Easter Island; shifted out of time and carried forth into the future, whereupon it finds that it has missed a great leap of events. In any case, I never bothered to relinquish that insistent number from its duties; as tempted as I was to learn if there had emerged anything new on the frontier, apart from those decorous protrusions which take the forms of a thousand chimeras. Only a single thing kept me on the alert… but that is another matter, and I have already promised myself to not raise it so frivolously. Let us return our attention to that proud number as it balances itself still longer, still tirelessly, on the thin edge of a green circle. Still, it is not changing. The night is beginning to recede behind closed lids. Everyone is exhausted. That that “27” remains any longer shall soon be no act of rebellion.

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