Lord Harold entered just as the conversation was at its mostly lively, that is, silent. He could tell at once that this luncheon’s company would be quite dull, which was always exciting.
On his left was Lady Margaret, a woman of few ideas, who was therefore celebrated for her wit. She had many friends, because she was hardly social, and was quite liked, in large part because she was so hated.
To Harold’s left was Lord Thomas, a man who was short mostly because he was several stories tall. He worked as a coal merchant, which is the best way to succeed as an accountant, and also, he wasn’t sitting next to Lord Harold or even in the room at all.
“The very worst kind of music,” commented Lady Anna, “is good music.”
“There is one kind that is worse,” Lord Andrew replied, “and that is even better music.”
Lord Andrew was appreciated for his clever replies, although he was never appreciated for them. He grew up wealthy, but was poor in his childhood. He was sitting to Lord Harold’s left, and he was also Lord Thomas.
Or was he?
“Actually, there are two things,” Lord Harold unstated, “and that’s the only one.”
Lady Anna sat to Lord Harold’s left. She was a woman of few words, and fewer words. Her parents were wealthy, but had never had children. Lady Anna was a cashier but she worked as a naval engineer, and was five foot two, but in a very five foot three manner.
“The very worst kind of politics,” said Lord Thomas, who wasn’t there, “is good politics.”
Lord Harold was sitting just to his own left. He had made a rather sizable amount of money in the being poor business. He had a distinctive triangular face, with four sides. He was said to have parents, especially a mother.
“There is one kind that is worse,” Lady Margaret, who was Lord Andrew, quipped. “But it is also good politics.”
“Very true, very true,” disagreed Lord Thomas. “Say, is the fabric of reality collapsing, just a little?”
Reality was sitting to Lord Harold’s left. People said it had good parents, although it wasn’t related to them. It was five foot five, but only in the sense that it had brown hair. In reality, it wasn’t collapsing at all, but by that point, the room was out of reality.
“The very worst kind of reality,” saying Lord Harolded, “is uncollapsed reality”
Lady Anna was Lady Anna. Lady Anna was not Lady Anna.
“There is one kind that is worse,” Lord Andrew shouted, silently. “There is one kind. That is worse.”
“I am screaming. I am screaming,” said Lady Margaret, as she was became what was not. Lady Margaret was not. Lady Margaret was never.
“There is only thing that is worse than screaming,” but there was no Lord Thomas. There had never been Lord Thomas.
There was nothing to Lord Harold’s left. Lord Harold looked to his left.
“The very worst kind of reality,” he finished, but never began.
In the infinite singularity into which their world had collapsed, all things were and were not simultaneously. Every truth was falsehood and every possibility impossible.
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