Warren dangled his bare feet over the streaming water. The clock he sat on was made out of green marble and the body of water had no name, at least not known to him, or the thin brunette emerging from the dark tree line about fifty meters behind where Warren sat.
He heard the crunch of her footsteps. Warren turned his head, the lifted himself up. The woman accelerated her pace from a feather-light tip toe to a mad dash toward the water. She lunged toward Warren, who was already side-stepping out of the way. Now she was in the air, clasped hands outstretched over her head gliding over the marble edge, arching downward.
Warren was silent and didn’t blink. There was no splash, no movement in the rising steam. Just as things were only moments ago.
Suddenly, a sucking sounds and a low tumble. The steam vibrated in it’s ascent over now simmering water.
A rustle form the dark woods as the trembling grew. The tree limbs swayed. Warren turned toward the forest line with a Spielbergian stare.
Out from the woods appear a parade of hazy characters feverishly heading toward the water, and Warren. Uniformed men pounding on snare drums, followed by circus clowns and ballerinas. Behind them were marathon runners carrying torches and roaring motorcycles kicking up dirt infuriating the elephants that followed.
—wrote this maybe two years ago, found folded up in Machiavelli’s The Prince.
