Guts
Its takes guts to wear a wrist watch now, he said. He had more to say. The crumbs were bothering him. He put up his hands. No more of this, he said. He had had enough of this modern world and its sincere clock aversions, its odd cakes of ash. He wanted to go down below. He left a note. It spent a lot of its paper referring to cold snaps. It told of old infections. The Police could not understand it. They sold it to NASA, who left it on a park bench and forgot about it. It is still out there, and he is still down there. Nobody minds too much.