Back on the street, it is now clear there is no way you will complete your census – not with six hours left, not with all the time in the world. While wondering what your future holds, you chance upon a nomadic palmist who has set up shop on the corner of Blight and Orchard. She gently informs you that the gash in your palm, while healing well, corresponds exactly with your life line, rendering your future "illegible." At least she gives you your money back.
Further down the road, while poaching an apple from a tree, a mailman in shorts and a mustache hands you a letter. It's addressed to you all right, and the handwriting makes your heart crawl into your throat. You take a deep breath and open it. Sure enough, your divorce is settled.
Further down the road, while poaching an apple from a tree, a mailman in shorts and a mustache hands you a letter. It's addressed to you all right, and the handwriting makes your heart crawl into your throat. You take a deep breath and open it. Sure enough, your divorce is settled.
...
You could certainly use a drink. But one drink leads to another leads to whiskey dick. What you need is guidance. A bookshop known simply as "Δ" catches your eye. Change. Also wouldn't hurt.
The shop is so ancient it is a primeval forest. Ferns and saplings grow up through cracks in the tiled floor, and near the back the limbs of a mature oak have forced their way through the ceiling. Rain drips through the holes and gathers below into rivulets, which wind through the undergrowth. You hear a consumptive cough in the distance and set out like Dr. Livingstone in search of its source.
Crickets chirp in the middle-ground. Vines creep invasively up the bookcases and across the aisles. Over and under the vines, through the dank and gray you plod until you discover a great oak desk piled high with ancient books. Behind the desk sits the most antediluvian man in the world. His attention is riveted to a bowl of berries and nuts, which appear to have been gathered from around the shop.
"Excuse me," you say. A small, colorful bird flutters past. Eventually the man registers your presence. "Could you point me to Self Help?"
"Self Help," echoes Methuselah across a giant gorge, judging from the delay and the faintness of his voice. He points a gnarled finger in a nonlinear direction and adds, "East."
You wander vaguely through the old growth aisles, uncertain which direction is east until you determine that a layer of moss covers the spines of books that face north. When you arrive at Self Help, you find a copy of How to Stay Alive in the Metaphorical Woods. With some difficulty you make your way back to the desk, where you purchase the book. "How do I get out of here?" you ask.
"Young man," he wheezes. "I've been asking myself that very question for 969 years."
The shop is so ancient it is a primeval forest. Ferns and saplings grow up through cracks in the tiled floor, and near the back the limbs of a mature oak have forced their way through the ceiling. Rain drips through the holes and gathers below into rivulets, which wind through the undergrowth. You hear a consumptive cough in the distance and set out like Dr. Livingstone in search of its source.
Crickets chirp in the middle-ground. Vines creep invasively up the bookcases and across the aisles. Over and under the vines, through the dank and gray you plod until you discover a great oak desk piled high with ancient books. Behind the desk sits the most antediluvian man in the world. His attention is riveted to a bowl of berries and nuts, which appear to have been gathered from around the shop.
"Excuse me," you say. A small, colorful bird flutters past. Eventually the man registers your presence. "Could you point me to Self Help?"
"Self Help," echoes Methuselah across a giant gorge, judging from the delay and the faintness of his voice. He points a gnarled finger in a nonlinear direction and adds, "East."
You wander vaguely through the old growth aisles, uncertain which direction is east until you determine that a layer of moss covers the spines of books that face north. When you arrive at Self Help, you find a copy of How to Stay Alive in the Metaphorical Woods. With some difficulty you make your way back to the desk, where you purchase the book. "How do I get out of here?" you ask.
"Young man," he wheezes. "I've been asking myself that very question for 969 years."
The End.
