Note to the receptionist
Young Man at the Reception Booth,
Attached is an envelope. Please deliver it to Sci. D. Phillips on level four. I believe his office is 421, or 412, but you surely know better than me.
Forgive me this task, for I cannot bear to complete it myself, so heavy is my conscience, and so tremendous my pain.
Forgive me also the crime I have committed against our planet Earth, a crime that began when I was as young and fair as you, passionate about our Universe, industriously tinkering with nature. A crime that came to its inevitable and unforeseeable conclusion very recently, and whose poisonous fruits have only begun to bloom over the unsuspecting world. I assure you, the results will be horribly breath-taking.
Oh, my boy, I must sound like a raving lunatic to you. But already the sky is changing; you must have seen the news reports. The bizarre climate, the shifted auroras, the whole-sale extinction of canaries.
The disruption of our machines and devices. The tingling sensation in your fingers and your tongue, as though you have licked a battery.
By now, everyone can feel there's something wrong in the air. Does it keep you up at night? Do you get up and rub your hands, or try to wash away the coppery taste with water only to find it has intensified, like a build up of static in your body?
This mysterious prickling you feel has become, in me, most torturous--such that I can hardly walk--but even if I was immune to the pain, I wouldn't get a moment of sleep. Not with what I know; with what knowledge I am, for some insane reason, teasing you.
How ironic, that news of the most cataclysmic event in History, with the most dire consequences for life on Earth, is first received by a bright-eyed receptionist who aspires to be an artist--not an indoctrined, world-reknown professor like Phillips.
But how do I know you're an artist?
You smell of acrylic, and your nails have the traces of color. Yes, I have approached you in the past on my way to the elevator. I instantly sensed the pureness of your heart in contrast with my own diabolique and selfish organ, pumping reckless obssession to my cursed brain.
People like you should inherit the earth. People of good heart, and of healthy respect for nature. Men like us should be the sole victims of our blind dabbles. But the end will come indiscriminately. It will come gradually. Its climax will be nothing short of electrifying.
Do not bother paging Sci. D. Phillips. Go right up yourself, put the envelope on his desk, and tell him goodbye on my part. Tell him goodbye on your part. Then go home and make peace with yourself.
Thank you and goodbye.
Sci. D. Giddens
P.S. Antarctica will be the least affected. You may have time to find a way there. Current Mood: apologetic