The Screaming Sheep
FIFTEEN PERFECT RECTANGLES
Bring me your science on a platter. Bring all of the choices to me on one piece of paper graphed into fifteen perfect rectangles and three level rows. Let me throw a dart at the wall to help make my choice. I am too tired to find epiphany on my own. Tell me whether to worship the crested ibis or the barnacled goose or the giant lizards swimming backwards in a black obelisk shaped like Prince Philip. Suspend me from the ceiling with rusty fish hooks dug deep into the skin on my back because punishment carries the weight of respect better than tears. I know nothing of a heliocentric solar system, a gender-biased Wikipedia, or a dance floor on a Saturday night. I know nothing of the manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles or the coming of the Magi. What I know is that sorrow lives within the old and young alike; what I know is that science can define it for me and give it a proper, four-letter acronym that makes me feel quick-witted and shrewd in the world of the well-dressed and elegant. What I know is that people tend to keep doing what they are doing until something handsome and seductive steps in front of them and says stop.