47. What, you've read it? Too long? You expect me to tell you a short story? Would kind of defeat my purpose, wouldn't it? One thousand and one nights and all that. Old books. Books that smell of mold and forgotten pollens, and dust to dust. Ashes. You know what we need now? We need a chorus. All the good tragedies had one. We need some accompaniment. We should have a group of gravelly-voiced singers standing behind us bemoaning our inevitable fate.

48.