Monday, May 19, 2008
Numbers
Clicking. Typing. And yawning.
That occupied most of the day- - that and chasing counts with a quiet pen that discovers the occasional fault on the slate: flooded with a mafia family of various shapes and sizes and angles- bummers who lounge in their comfort of potential error. Strangely, they appear quite like hieroglyphics to the outside world; but to an insider like Renny Theycar- - they are assassins with a ninja capacity to decimate his bakery or topple another business that will possibly decimate his bakery and jeapordise his own bakery business of making bread victories his business.
"Hieroglyphics?" Theycar picks up my thoughts and chuckles- perhaps the only whiff of humour in 267 days- ready to provide an insider's POV that is perhaps only funny to the trained mind like Theycar's trained mind's trained mind's trained mind's trained mi...et so on and so forth. "It's definitely Arabic in origin- damn those Muslim traders. Look at it, just look at these numbers." Almost shouting; shouting that even Ashoka Naidu seated 31 cubicles away would catch the whisper of his tempest and be tempted to challenge the tenet of Theycar's ignorance by invoking the ancient knowledge of his ancient ancestors.
"You see, Arabic Numerals aren't exactly Arabic." Theycar pounces on my thoughts and cackles a bit in amusement- perhaps the only entertainment for the remainder of sun-up. Then, he looks regretfully at his desk and spots another pile waiting on another rack; he hears regretfully from the speakers of another ping from another e-mail incoming- -more work; more numbers- - entering the reality with neither explanation, nor cause of being.
"They are; therefore they are," he mutters.
Clicking. Typing. And yawning.
A slush of coffee for Theycar-
the accountant- who stares into
the ceiling of nights- to wish only
he were the man with many doors.
cuRRent...jer ¶ 9:48 pm
Clicking. Typing. And yawning.
That occupied most of the day- - that and chasing counts with a quiet pen that discovers the occasional fault on the slate: flooded with a mafia family of various shapes and sizes and angles- bummers who lounge in their comfort of potential error. Strangely, they appear quite like hieroglyphics to the outside world; but to an insider like Renny Theycar- - they are assassins with a ninja capacity to decimate his bakery or topple another business that will possibly decimate his bakery and jeapordise his own bakery business of making bread victories his business.
"Hieroglyphics?" Theycar picks up my thoughts and chuckles- perhaps the only whiff of humour in 267 days- ready to provide an insider's POV that is perhaps only funny to the trained mind like Theycar's trained mind's trained mind's trained mind's trained mi...et so on and so forth. "It's definitely Arabic in origin- damn those Muslim traders. Look at it, just look at these numbers." Almost shouting; shouting that even Ashoka Naidu seated 31 cubicles away would catch the whisper of his tempest and be tempted to challenge the tenet of Theycar's ignorance by invoking the ancient knowledge of his ancient ancestors.
"You see, Arabic Numerals aren't exactly Arabic." Theycar pounces on my thoughts and cackles a bit in amusement- perhaps the only entertainment for the remainder of sun-up. Then, he looks regretfully at his desk and spots another pile waiting on another rack; he hears regretfully from the speakers of another ping from another e-mail incoming- -more work; more numbers- - entering the reality with neither explanation, nor cause of being.
"They are; therefore they are," he mutters.
Clicking. Typing. And yawning.
A slush of coffee for Theycar-
the accountant- who stares into
the ceiling of nights- to wish only
he were the man with many doors.
cuRRent...jer ¶ 9:48 pm
