At one of the World's Fairs, Allister walked out onto the promenda. His clothes were doused in liquid and he smelled of kerosene. Allister crouched down, his right hand fishing in his pockets for matches. When his fingers brushed the box, he pulled them out, took a deep breath, lit the match, and opened his mouth to scream his cause out into the world. But, no words came. Allister drew another breath, the match burning down the little wooden stick towards his fingers. His mind was blank. He had forgotten his cause. How? He was not sure. Somewhere buried in his brain matter was a message he intended to give and a reason for that message. A reason that woke Allister this morning and made him eat his oatmeal dry. Made him pour three gallons of kerosene onto himself. The last gallon, admittedly, was wasteful especially when considering his clothes were soaked in another three gallons of kerosene. But why? Allister knew he knew-at one time anyway.
His quick jaunt into his brain matter came out empty handed and Allister blew the match out just in time. He could not think of what to do. Something drove him so desperately to this conclusion. Moments after his breakfast, Allister feared this would happen. That something so drastic, sprung on him from seemingly nowhere, and with such short notice, could just as easily be forgotten. He thought of writing it on a piece of paper and affixing it to the front of his shirt, but remembered the fire that would inevitably result from the equation of flame plus kerosene. He contemplated the possibilites. They all seemed to involve affixing objects to his shirt which, by means of the previous reason (fire plus kerosene), would not suffice. This left Allister with his baritone. The idea seemed fine at the time. He was often complimented on his voice, sometimes while Allister sat in complete silence. Onlookers remarked that he just looked to have a voice sent from the angels. Allister believed that it was his mustache that brought in such comments. In his silence, it beamed like a baritone lighthouse.
Allister dripped kerosene in free-flowing streams, puddling the promenade. The confusion was intense. Allister feared it too intense, that it would spark so deep a blank that the kerosene would see the figurative spark and leap to pull it into the literal. His hands shook. His fingers madly tracing letters that might form words that might be why Allister came to light himself on fire. He feared the spark of his confusion. He feared the box of matches he still held in his left hand. He drew his arm back and catapulted the matches in their little boxy submarine deep into the ocean.
Two gangly men lit cigars some twenty feet from Allister and he let out a baritone shriek. Even that was too close. The sun's heated beams were too close. Allister stripped naked and sprinted across the promenade, shrieking all the way, dodging fire eaters and hot coal walkers and large fireworks displays. This was the World's Fair, you remember. Fire seemed to take a huge part in it as it should, its introduction to humanity a blaring addition to the dullness of our lives.
It was in a curious situation that Allister found himself. Citizens from across the globe had assembled to celebrate the vastness of the world and how they all related to it and each other. And here, in the midst of this unity, was Allister; sprinting like a mad naked man, smelling of kerosene, and screaming gibberish in a baritone that just this morning set out to shout an important and fully cognizant message of protest. That message, of course, was lost for the evening, for the rest of his life even. A bout of amnesia that stopped him from combusting and gave him the rest of his life to remember the day he ran naked across the promenade of The World's Fair.
His quick jaunt into his brain matter came out empty handed and Allister blew the match out just in time. He could not think of what to do. Something drove him so desperately to this conclusion. Moments after his breakfast, Allister feared this would happen. That something so drastic, sprung on him from seemingly nowhere, and with such short notice, could just as easily be forgotten. He thought of writing it on a piece of paper and affixing it to the front of his shirt, but remembered the fire that would inevitably result from the equation of flame plus kerosene. He contemplated the possibilites. They all seemed to involve affixing objects to his shirt which, by means of the previous reason (fire plus kerosene), would not suffice. This left Allister with his baritone. The idea seemed fine at the time. He was often complimented on his voice, sometimes while Allister sat in complete silence. Onlookers remarked that he just looked to have a voice sent from the angels. Allister believed that it was his mustache that brought in such comments. In his silence, it beamed like a baritone lighthouse.
Allister dripped kerosene in free-flowing streams, puddling the promenade. The confusion was intense. Allister feared it too intense, that it would spark so deep a blank that the kerosene would see the figurative spark and leap to pull it into the literal. His hands shook. His fingers madly tracing letters that might form words that might be why Allister came to light himself on fire. He feared the spark of his confusion. He feared the box of matches he still held in his left hand. He drew his arm back and catapulted the matches in their little boxy submarine deep into the ocean.
Two gangly men lit cigars some twenty feet from Allister and he let out a baritone shriek. Even that was too close. The sun's heated beams were too close. Allister stripped naked and sprinted across the promenade, shrieking all the way, dodging fire eaters and hot coal walkers and large fireworks displays. This was the World's Fair, you remember. Fire seemed to take a huge part in it as it should, its introduction to humanity a blaring addition to the dullness of our lives.
It was in a curious situation that Allister found himself. Citizens from across the globe had assembled to celebrate the vastness of the world and how they all related to it and each other. And here, in the midst of this unity, was Allister; sprinting like a mad naked man, smelling of kerosene, and screaming gibberish in a baritone that just this morning set out to shout an important and fully cognizant message of protest. That message, of course, was lost for the evening, for the rest of his life even. A bout of amnesia that stopped him from combusting and gave him the rest of his life to remember the day he ran naked across the promenade of The World's Fair.
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