Perhaps it can be story time?

And I looked on my world, and I saw its silence: in the cool glens of my academics, where vocabulary and physics equations doze side-by-side as they never did before, vulnerable and cuddling in their sudden abandonment; in the soft, murmured fluttering of city-maps beneath the soil of time, where construction and change have slowly dug a grave for landmarks once known; and in the solemn watchful gaze of smiles and laughter reserved for moments in the past, and lingering hopefully for moments in the future.

I walked the misted paths, and wound my way through tundra and foliage, and came to squat next to a river of words, tumbling so swiftly across the landscape in so uniform a spray of English, Spanish, German, Japanese, Czech, Slovak--the dialects of this narcissistic universe--that their voices were the babbling of a brook, and their fusions were as little fish. I saw idly that some fish yet swam against this current, and as their "i"s switched furiously with their "y"s, a sentence bubbled out of the fray--insistent, demanding, with no hesitance or qualms about it. "Write, and do it now," came the angry accusation, as more fused words both joined and left the rebellious few in their upward journey. I sighed, and stroked one along the back of a ž as it squirmed into a t.

"Alright."

I work at a grocery store. I have nothing more to offer than my words. Do you care to listen?

Excuse ?

And why shouldn't it start right here, right now, this very second? Why wait a moment more?