Perpetual check
The dark side of the moon where ghosts of aborted dreams coolly await their next conduit; the sharpest minds too can be found silently reclining over a game (or two trillion). True, they have their heads screwed on, but they see nothing but numbers; they smell only gunpowder; cold is all they feel. The screws are too tight. yet they cracked smiles when the last spark of mystery fizzled out; stepping outside of time, they understood its passage was purely smoke and mirrors. The idea of creation, a sequence of unfolding events, dissolved, the paradigm swirled 'to a painting, an unbroken rotation: opening, middle, end games.
