I’d be lying if I told you that I haven’t thought about you since. It creeps on me during the strangest of times. I wouldn’t call it painful but it certainly is far from desirable, the reminiscing. Remember Almora? We talked about it; we spent the entire night under the influence of what may or may not have been hashish, discussing isolation and taxes. I remember because you mentioned it was too cold to be pondering meaninglessness.
You joked about how Zarathushtra may have been just a mad man suffering from some variation of cabin fever. In hindsight, I doubt it. The overman, we concluded, was a farce. We laughed at our seeming cleverness. And I cannot help but wonder if that night had anything to do with what happened after. Did it?
No, don’t answer that.
I concede that a year is a long time. I do not wish to bring up the unpleasantness but I want to tell you that I’ll take you up on the offer. I’d rather spend a year away from this noise with you. In isolation. We can still prove that the overman is a collective.
I’ll hang up now.
Charl
ArtyP
kalafudra
September 14, 2009
This dabble in fiction is bloody brilliant – short and potent.