"We bring Enlightenment,” they offer, proceeding slowly, answering their imploring jury earnestly. But thirst pervades as they are just in from having wandered around the desert for an unmeasured period of time, and so they break from their collective accounting of events passed. An observer would have notice that they bring with them sand. It falls from them with granular languidness—lavish mounds grow at their feet with every movement. Thus, petite lifeless wastelands amass at the heels of GIANTS. An observer might also generally remark that they appear to be in poor shape for a trail, but they also bring with them certain calmness. They are confident. It was a slow and silent sojourn—one failing initially to move mountains but nevertheless successful in leading them to fecund pastures of a virgin plane and they believe in its fruits.
They each take their own State-sponsored sip of ice water, savoring the prescient parallel while haphazardly making melodic allusion to their offspring as they each place their glasses back onto the table before them—thereby knocking the cubes in varyingly pitched chaos against the transparent and crystal retaining walls. Time had been spent cautiously in this cultivation for which they are being tried. TIME. But make no mistake for the undertaking was not happenstance. There was great intention to it all. It wasn’t stupid luck. There was great purpose to their Paranian peregrination. Make no mistake.
And as to this here matter of time, which had been lost in the desert but was now of relevance, they themselves seemed almost entirely ignorant. You even might say that they were lost to the great Oblivion of––––
...Obliviousness. Think of the Myopic Mother that dies of thirst while nursing.
But just then, as they had just started to calculate the time lapsed of their peregrination—“I reckon I done calculate a total time elapsed of […],” the Blind Poet so started to offer (ciegamente, como era su costumbre) with a contemptuous countenance reminiscent of something he thought he once saw in a painting on the wall of a museum inside of a building—a thought interrupted the question. Imagine. And, subsequently, they collectively repatriated to their College of Oblivion to share a Heiddeggerian escape. They were to prevail over the imposing concrete confines of their physical presence:
Ohh… Precious time—you mock us so, well, mockingly.
OH, PRECIOUS TIME [Time, Time, Time of mine, let us not let you let us wither on the vine—PLEASE], you burn away the few precious moments that you have given us with an insouciant irreverence similar to that of an amateur pyromaniac left alone to a matchbook; worse yet, what do you do in the season preceding a likely Birth?—I WILL TELL YOU, MY LOVELY MASTER OF MUSES—you continue nonplussed, undermining the likelihood of said Birth with timely and selfishly orchestrated expiration, like that of Milk. Worst of all, MUSE, you do so with your all too Indifferent-but-would-be nurturing Hands, which are of coursed lavishly gloved in velvety and untraceable Transience. Everyone knows that.
(Time is a cruel mistress, The Minstrel and Pharmacist thought simultaneously; As are all invisible mistresses, responded the Chef, Engineer and Blind Poet in perfect but inaudible three-part harmony through subterranean transatlantic telegraph wires—to which Queen Victoria responded gleefully ‘Glory to God in the highest; on earth, peace and good will toward men’.)
But then a memory random interrupts the telepathic thought that had interrupted the interruption that was interrupting the question that was the birth of the trial, which was an investigation into The Birth—
They are transcendentally transported again—“but now it has roots,” she screams from her vortex. They now find themselves somewhere near Sr. Mickey (who) Blissfully wails on a Hammond organ in a basement of Bohemian proportions and unforeseen slovenly decadence. He yells over the Ecclesial dissonance he is so purposefully creating to a young and handsome Pharmacist who has just come in through the door: “And uhhh, yeah man; whatever...and uhhh, yeah...I hope you survive the storm. —I hope". - I hope He hopes.-
<<BUT THEN THE MOMENT IS OVER, she cried to Jupiter as she closed her eyes, fearing her caliginous departure.>>
Let us not forget about the trail at hand. The Chef, Pharmacist, Blind Poet, Engineer, and Minstrel (who randomly insists on being called ‘Mr. Ménestrel’ when the mood so strikes him—and let’s not neglect The Chef, presently standing to the left of Monsieur Ménestrel, who once poignantly asked a particularly sanctimonious Italian priest how he liked his SHEEP prepared when the father had ordered lamb in The Chef’s renown ‘Cathedral of Sustenance’… and to great and thunderous fanfare!) all stood before the jury. They were suddenly awaiting the verdict. The trial, of course, had been taking place during their shared cerebral vacation.
Most confounding was the invisibility of the jury before which they stood—and still stand for my booming and all-knowing voice is punctuated and complimented only by the disheartening silence of the lone stenographer. Distant and empty like the expanse which was the stage of the desert sojourn in which they failed to move mountains. (I should take this opportunity as your omniscient but humble guide that it is has been rumored that much of their time was spent ‘throwing fistfuls of money around—music, noise, gypsy women, and Wine,’ hence the matter of their trial” for the parents of any child born outside of the prescribed trés-trimester should always be questioned,” He declared with infinite and absolute sagacity.)
“Life is full of the comical. And we wax our philosophy on spinning dinosaur bones.”
That is our closing statement, judicious jury. Be kind to our child—her name is ELPIS, from the land of Pandora—and she will nurse you as you would nurse her; and we will await your verdict.