a tragic work of tremendous import wherein metaphorical Man is released from the bondage of apathy only long enough to produce and consume a beverage of historical significance before lapsing recidivistically into prior doldrums, an event which causes him to doubt at once the motives of god and the meaning of existence [implied]; followed by a brief discussion of metaphysical implications; cookies and punch will be served.

since he’s tired, there seems little reason to bother with it. He lay sprawled on the couch, torpid, the ceiling describing to him with some vigor the harsh blankness of its surface, its imperfections, the bit of [choose one: hommos; bubble gum; chocolate syrup; razzleberry Koolaid] that someone had launched upwards years ago (perhaps in a fit of flavor-induced euphoria) and failed to clean. Too tired to turn off the television, anchors assault him with news of continued violence in [upper; middle; lower; rural] [east; Balkans; Pacific northwest, Eurasia]. Also, a local boy named [Timmy; Bobby; Arnold] got to meet a state senator because he won a contest for making the most realistic tableau of [the signing of the Declaration of Independence; a ConAgra slaughterhouse on a hot day; 19th century surgical procedures] using only elbow macaroni and red glitter.

“I need a [girlfriend; 30" plasma television; giant bowl of chips],” he thinks, somewhat morosely, knowing full well that such a thing is out of his reach, both figuratively speaking as well as literally, as he is not likely to get up for anything. “In fact,” he says to himself, just peeved enough to say it out loud instead of subvocally, “Why did I even get out of bed this morning?”

And here he is faced with a dilemma: should he get up long enough to trek to his bed, or stay where he was, somewhat uncomfortably, out of sheer apathy? “[fudge; damn; criminy; expletive deleted]!” he shouts, suddenly feeling petulant. “Look at me: I’m trying to decide if I’m too lazy to go be lazy! This has got to change! I’ve got to do something with my life! Why, I could [paint a picture; chase squirrels; take up amateur horticulture], or [learn to speak Pennsyltucky Dutch; build a working spaceship from recyclables; listen to King Crimson LPs backwards in search of hidden messages], or maybe even [run for political office; sculpt my guns; create a new language derived from Elvish]! Hell, I could even sing karaoke!”

He pauses as his [dog; cat; indentured servant] looks quizzically at him. “Well, maybe not karaoke,” he adds as an afterthought. “But, I could… I could…. I could use some coffee. Maybe a bagel. Ooh! Or a [cheese danish; donut; piece of baklava].”

But first comes the nearly-insurmountable task of physically moving his body in proximity with the coffee machine, a gorgeous, byzantine Gevalia number, a mocha goddess that beckons with pouting, percolating lips. His indolent arms lay against the cushions as if paralyzed, refusing motion even for the promise of beverage. With a sigh like [a nor'easter; flatulent livestock; Marlon Brando] he strains, grunts, and finally—Hercules smites his foe, Sisyphus tips a bolder over the top—sits up, wrinkling his nose at the news anchors, who are now blathering about [holiday recipes; serial rapists; recent studies proving that chocolate is good; recent studies proving that chocolate is bad]. He snatches the remote resolutely and gave an irritated stab at the power button, missing and instead changing the channel to [a Spanish soap opera; MTV; Who Wants to Briefly Marry a Millionaire?]. A strangle cry tears from his throat at the horror of it all, and he carefully frobs the power, reducing the glowing apparition to a pinprick of light, which blinks out of existence like [an old bulb; Leif Garrett's career; unrealized probabilistic waveforms].

Tremulously, he makes his way to the kitchen, the sodium-yellow light overhead throwing a glare onto the waxed linoleum. With the greatest of measured care, he doles out several spoonfuls of dark brown coffee into a filter. It was coffee from [Costa Rica; Brazil; Guatemala], and he reflects—only briefly, while his beverage brews—on the turbulent history of the beans he was holding in his hands, the slave wages paid to the natives who picked the ripe cherries, the rise and fall of vast fortunes based on the perturbations of the harvest. It is a curious thing, life. As he enjoys his beverage, brown sip after brown sip, couched in brown study, he is taken aback at the infinitesimal nature of his own existence. Certainly, the beans used to make the steaming mug of mocha in front of him had seen more of the world. But here he is, a more magnificent creature of vastly superior [intellect, video gaming skills, hair], barely able to summon the motivation for verticalness. What intolerable cruelty is this lethargy? Or no—not cruelty at all, but a cold and distant set of stars. Disillusioned, he thinks perhaps that he is entirely alone, untouched by the posited love of creation, estranged from his neighbors, their voices silent upon his ears, their tongues indecipherable.

He—nihilist, solipsist, narcissist, coffee freak—lay physically and spiritually sprawled on the table, limp as coffee grounds, thinking perhaps the a priori assumption of human value is inherently flawed, that perhaps value is predicated upon history.

That perhaps he should make some of his own history, laying down the mortar of worth, action by action, travail by travail, cup by cup. That perhaps his lethargy is a self-fulfilling prophecy, a cycle of unrealized potential, self-abuse, and doldrums. Even if he doesn’t take up arts and crafts or learn a language or build an ark, perhaps he will stand up and play fisticuffs with the mockery of his lonely metaphysics.

Tomorrow, though. Today, it was already rather late, and

“In this story,” he began, “we’re going to communicate the absurdity of life. I believe this is called ‘nihilism’”

“But,” his counterpart interjected, “doesn’t nihilism also entail that communication is impossible?”

They lapsed into silence. Finally the First said, “Isn’t destruction the only response to such metaphysical collapse?”

The Second pondered this for a moment, and whispered, “Should we fight?”

“We’ve waited long enough, responded the First, chewing on a carrot. “He’s not coming.”

With a heavy sigh, the two fought long into the night. Finally, picking up a fragment of rock, the First dashed out the brains of the Second, who lay dead in a swath of flattened grass.

The sky was cleft as from a sword, and a maw of light and fire preceded voice of God, who exiled the First to a land in the east.

“Metaphysical collapse isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” the First thought, and then went to bed and knew his wife several times.

The First begat the Third, Fourth, and Fifth, who begat the Sixth, Seventh, &c. all the way to the 42^nd, who, tired of the biblical allusions, decided to change the focus entirely by building a treehouse on Yggdrasill. There, he met an enchanted elf, who told him of a haunted castle with a hidden treasure.

“You are the youngest son, right?” inquired the elf. “The kind one?”

“Yes, but that was a rather grim segue.”

The elf agreed, and gave him three feathers, each of which, when dropped upon the ground, would grant a wish.

The 42^nd went to the haunted castle and immediately met a lion with a human’s face, who riddled him. “What animal has one voice, but goes on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and upon three legs in the evening? Answer correctly or you’ll die.”

The 42^nd dropped a feather and wished that he could skip all this nonsense and go straight to the booty.

Immediately, the creature turned into a beautiful princess, who had been cursed by an evil stepmother. The 42^nd realized that he should not have used such an idiomatic word as “booty” and dropped another feather, wishing specifically for vast piles of gold and treasure.

When heavy coins and gemstones the size of coconuts began dropping from the ceiling, the 42nd dropped the third feather and wished for symbological significance, at which point he fell dead.

Swimming around in Styx, he caught sight of the First, and asked what went so horribly wrong.

The First responded, “Nothing went wrong. In fact, nothing could have gone wrong, since the author does not explicitly define the meaning of this crazy story. You could read into the brief literary allusions as a denunciation of classical works in the modern era, the distinct lack of female characters as either blatant chauvinism or a comment upon the sexism of the historical and literary record. Or, you could view you, the 42^nd, as a sort of Christ figure, having descended from the divine to free a haunted castle of its burden, only to die. In the end, the meaning of the story lies with the reader, who will ultimately decide based upon their intellect and the context of the reading, which is specific to the individual and will not mean the same to any two.”

“Isn’t that a sort of metaphysical collapse?” asked the 42^nd.

“That’s what I’ve been saying!”