The Ministry of Metaphysics
There's a problem with the encrypting agents— jowls slack to chests, open-mouthed, they sleep. The sum of their breaths builds the murmur of an underwater creature rolling over in a dream. Video surveillance overhead provides a bird's eye view: their bald heads rest
like so many eggs in the carton, two abreast and six rows back (we think). The agents put up a play of mirrors, sending their heads off to infinite regress, deeper than human sleep. It's raining buckets outside. The water rolls down windows, down brick, the gutters murmur
secrets to deaf sidewalks, murmur sad stories to storm drains, and the rest. Over their computer screens numbers roll, casting greenish light on the agents, as outside distant lightning threatens sleep. Mendicants stand on street corners with bowed heads
and open arms. Rain beats on their heads and weighs down their robes. They murmur prayers to protect the sacred sleep, "Let nothing stir the agents from their rest lest they forget the codes they live as agents." Sleep is the lock on the door. If that lock rolls
over its sliding parts, it could unroll mysteries not meant for our small heads to see. It could mean death for the agents. Nobody knows. There is a constant murmur of conjecture in this town. We never rest, for all the arguing. They've been asleep
for months now, or else they've always slept, the thunderstorm always rolling in from the south. Now, a red-breasted robin stretches his wings, tucks his head down, preening his chest feathers. The murmur of gathering spectators builds an agency
all its own. Head-on, the robin charges sleeping windows. One consoling murmur from the crowd unrolls: "Now, now, the agents are so tired, we must let them rest."
by Eagross / ea144
Sometimes putting effort into stringing together words leads to something beautiful. Sent to me years ago by a friend.