An opening of an unfinished story, feels very fitting for the time of year…
The planet Lana exists on the very precipice of what we would call the known universe. Named after nothing much in particular. And on the very edge of a very remote island lives a not particularly lonely man who pears through a telescope which is quite extra ordinary in that it happens to be a rather complex piece of scientific equipment.

On Lana’s planet, the scientific community had developed quite a talent of cosmic observation. While on earth, the Hubble telescope is able to view ten thousand galaxies all at once from a fixed point in space, a desk top telescope, connected to an adjustable satellite in orbit around one Lana’s many moons (Ultra, Ride, Million to name but a few) can view a particular person at the exact moment they are living right now, complete with crystal clear audio, which considering how far away they are is about fourteen billion years ago, give or take point five a billion or so which is a quite large a margin of error. The point being, they most certainly dead by now, in case you were wondering, but through the magic of relativity, which we on earth quite arrogantly attributed to Einstein, they appear very much alive.

Peering into the telescope, he had become fixated on a white washed bedroom, empty aside from a single painting of what appeared to be a soft creature with a perilously large head balancing itself on a very young child. It’s face holding an expressing of pure ignorance.

The fixation had come concerning its inhabitants, each time, he had looked, a new person seemed to be there, each more extravagant than the last. Some male, some female, some pale, some very dark. The most recent appeared to be some combination of all of the above, a constantly changing metamorphosis and this brought him to spend more time looking and more often in the same exact spot. And this one time, there were two. A woman. Hour and minute he called them after a confusing conversation he became focuses on.

“My father died eleven years ago today.” The words fell out of minutes mouth as if he had not meant to say them.

“I’m sorry.” What else does someone say when presented with such a thing as that.

“I’m glad I met you.”

Hour leaves. Minute sits, his eyes fixates on the unusual painting. “I could never get the hang of August.

Para. The not too lonely man peering through the telescope on planet Lana, his name is Para. He once was a great pilot in the war. He become crippled later in life after being hit by car on a cross walk, or the alien equivalent to that jazz. He thought it rather boring. He rather it had happen during the war, his legs been crushed by an enemy tank or his tendons ripped as torture to get information. Life it seems is not without a sense of irony.



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