"Why this moment and not another?
I really have no idea.
You just caught my eye."
Anon.
Silence spoke.
Guignol presented himself with his arms outstretched, his wrist holding a cooking spoon.
He was an unavoidable presence.
His silence spoke volumes.
I took a mental note and made my way.
Whatever Guignol would say he kept for himself.
A carousel of souvenirs.
A little further up the street, I came across Saint Augustine:
"Our route only exists through our walking of it."
His still wisdom beckoned me.
Was Saint Augustine speaking to Guignol?
A quick spin of the carousel and Samuel Beckett appeared, diagonally.
Centuries were categorically collapsed.
It was an unlikely twist of fate, I warrant you.
Samuel Beckett met Saint Augustine as a souvenir in a gift shop.
"We say everything (We say it all.)
(Or at least everything that we are able to say)
All that we are able to.
And not a word of truth to be found anywhere."
They had been waiting for this moment.
All life and essence were reduced to a paltry sound-bite on a post card.
A Sounding board.
A blank page appeared.
Its silence listened intently.
Neither I nor Guignol, nor Saint Augustine, nor Samuel Beckett could have foreseen it.
I made a note or tied a mental knot.
I beat time...
I mindlessly rushed to reach my ends.
I beat time...
I ambled aimlessly my means to test.
I beat time....
There was nothing to it....
All judgement appeared reserved.
A carousel spin away, Guignol stood, his arms outstretched.
His silence spoke volumes...
