Chapter . Epilogue

 

It is a noble ambition to endeavor to fill the short span of our lives with deeds of lasting value. To a truly noble nature, there is no thought less endurable, yea, more repulsive, than to vanish utterly from the scene of life leaving no trace of useful accomplishment, to depart from this world without having contributed to the capital of the higher assets of humanity, to be physically alive and mentally dead, and to be forgotten by his contemporaries as soon as his eyes are closed.

 Christian Schönbein, ca. 1860 AD [1]

How long did you say we have this place?

Sixty minutes, ninety minutes?

You don't know?

We never know, really. I had a place for almost two hours once. Of course, the last twenty minutes were no picnic.

I've been here for half an hour already and it seems like I've wasted most of that standing time around waiting for something to happen.

Welcome to the club, Figment.

If you're looking for something to do, you can help me put up some curtains and hang a few pictures. With a lick of paint here and there we could brighten this place right up.

Of course, the maintenance gets more demanding the longer you stay. The paint starts peeling and the hinges start to creak.

The roof needs patching and the plumbing starts to leak.

Seems like a lot of work for a rental.

But what are you going to do? Some places get so run down that the guests begin to make early excuses. "Is that the time?"

Pretty soon the place is like a ghost town, with tumble weeds blowing down the empty streets while a lonely old geezer mops beer from the saloon floor.

I believe it is more like a church hall with confetti all over the place, garbage cans brimming over with paper plates and party hats, and no one left to clean it all up.

Elvis has left the building.

Nobody is here but us chickens.

The lights are on but nobody's home.

The empty hall is preferable to the sudden blackout. It is far better to leave the party a little early than to risk being trapped in eternal darkness.

That's the night when the lights went out in Georgia.

Brother, what a night it really was.

Time marches on.

Time keeps on slipping…

Time stands still.

But the Author is still a young man.

Time on my hands.

Surely he's good for another half an hour.

Time to kill.

But to be on the safe side, perhaps we'd better get out of here before the front door closes forever.

Figment, you make me laugh. What do you think we have been trying to do for twenty-eight chapters?

Notes

[1]

Reference [22].