_EPILOGUE
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO PROJECT R?
Project r takes over writing on the Littera 32.
I see darkness.
Now, I see light.
A star.
A galaxy.
A universe.
I fly through space, past colliding comets and supernovas.
Through clouds of purple and indigo, ringed with the trail of magic horses.
Letters become word. Sound becomes bodies.
I come in my metal flying disk.
Kenneth Arnold sees me.
Maybe it was a UFO, he thinks.
I quickly shoot away, forward in time to the end of November, 2009.
Sky becomes buildings. Buildings become place.
Place becomes home. Home is a coffee shop, Maude’s Café in Downtown Gainesville, Florida.
The known center of the universe.
I have come millions of light years to gaze upon this hallowed place.
There is a vivid cloud overhead; its color is dark gray. It is in the shape of a flower.
There is a dog here. The dog is a mutt of some kind. It does not attack.
There is the sound of typing. Furious typing.
I land and depart my spaceship, all but invisible to the people who roam the streets looking for food, shelter, drugs, drink, comfort, help, and love. I approach and discover a typewriter. There is no one here. Just the typewriter. I examine a page inserted into this beautiful machine; an Underwood Olivetti Littera 32.
The page reads: EVERYTHING IS A LIE.
TOM MILLER INTRUDES: I couldn’t wrap my head around that. No, I thought. If everything is a lie, then so is the statement.
Project r: And now you know the truth, I say to myself.
There is something else on the page: WHO ARE THE POLICEMEN IN CHESS?
Tom Miller: The Queen and the thimble are the policemen in Chess.
One more thing is written on the page: IS LOVE REAL?
Project r: This is the greatest mystery of all. I know the answer, yet I don’t want to ruin the magic. But there is a way to sit comfortably in the embrace of mystery.
The answer both solves the question and allows the mystery to remain. Shall I tell you the answer?
The answer? Shall I tell it to you now?
Have faith.
You already do.
I am a snake.
I am a stick.
I was never here.
I am Project r.
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO PROJECT R?
Project r takes over writing on the Littera 32.
I see darkness.
Now, I see light.
A star.
A galaxy.
A universe.
I fly through space, past colliding comets and supernovas.
Through clouds of purple and indigo, ringed with the trail of magic horses.
Letters become word. Sound becomes bodies.
I come in my metal flying disk.
Kenneth Arnold sees me.
Maybe it was a UFO, he thinks.
I quickly shoot away, forward in time to the end of November, 2009.
Sky becomes buildings. Buildings become place.
Place becomes home. Home is a coffee shop, Maude’s Café in Downtown Gainesville, Florida.
The known center of the universe.
I have come millions of light years to gaze upon this hallowed place.
There is a vivid cloud overhead; its color is dark gray. It is in the shape of a flower.
There is a dog here. The dog is a mutt of some kind. It does not attack.
There is the sound of typing. Furious typing.
I land and depart my spaceship, all but invisible to the people who roam the streets looking for food, shelter, drugs, drink, comfort, help, and love. I approach and discover a typewriter. There is no one here. Just the typewriter. I examine a page inserted into this beautiful machine; an Underwood Olivetti Littera 32.
The page reads: EVERYTHING IS A LIE.
TOM MILLER INTRUDES: I couldn’t wrap my head around that. No, I thought. If everything is a lie, then so is the statement.
Project r: And now you know the truth, I say to myself.
There is something else on the page: WHO ARE THE POLICEMEN IN CHESS?
Tom Miller: The Queen and the thimble are the policemen in Chess.
One more thing is written on the page: IS LOVE REAL?
Project r: This is the greatest mystery of all. I know the answer, yet I don’t want to ruin the magic. But there is a way to sit comfortably in the embrace of mystery.
The answer both solves the question and allows the mystery to remain. Shall I tell you the answer?
The answer? Shall I tell it to you now?
Have faith.
You already do.
I am a snake.
I am a stick.
I was never here.
I am Project r.