(Overweight man in worn-out t-shirt, center stage, slumping in his chair)
Sometimes I'll just be looking westward, rather west I say, sitting up from having lain on the train tracks for, for a few hours, and watch as the sun set itself across the horizon like an egg yolk oozing from a cracked shell. And I would think that maybe the only thing in this entire universe that doesn't actually ever have it's own shadow is the sun. I mean, if you think about it, when is a dimmer sun ever going to come across a brighter one so that it would cast a shadow? And onto what, pray tell, would the sun cast a shadow onto? If not empty space, of course.
Then other times I’ll look into my coffee cup and see a galaxy of foam swirling therein. And how most of what's microscopic is mirrored by what is infinitely large. Then I get sticky wet thinking of what the universe could possible be expanding into? I mean, we hear, us that is, we hear often enough of the universe expanding, still expanding, ever expanding, but the way I understand it, you must expand into something, you must! Now, if the universe is mostly empty space anyways, dappled here and there a bit by some coma looking comets, or a spitting nebula looking like a percent sign, and empty space can't expand into empty space, what could be beyond that wall of an expanding universe? I don't know! I just don't know! I just don't understand it! So then dusk would fall, and the sky would yawn into this purple hue and would toss up a moon disk as if it were a vint-cinque sous. And then two sister moons would join me along the track, swelling and growing brighter. And I would say, “Hello sister moons!” And then, and then the ground would rattle something noisy and I’d be shaken off the tracks like popcorn off an aluminium pan held over a fire, and I would just laugh there rolling amongst the hawthorns and haycocks while this great heaving machine whizzed on by telling me to “PISS OFF!!”