By the public spirit of our entertainment conglomerate a teletransportation conduit has recently been established between our neighborhood and the Celestial City. Having little time, I resolved to undertake a trip.
Accordingly, one sultry morning I thought about the corner of Avenue and North 9th, where the cadmium-graphite kiosk, a tensegrity shed, was installed. Rendering a brief howdy and exchange of lucky numbers with my bookie, who was returning from a fact-gathering pilgrimage -- I briskly motioned into the shimmering claptraption.
There was no fanfare. No bright flash, no arcing of electrical jibberations, no background musak. There was no adumbration whatsoever. It was a splendidly delivered dullness. The effect was instantaneously as adverted; nothing was there before me instantly in no time. I was not certain if I had arrived before leaving. Explaining, I suppose, the time bending attraction the conduit delivers for my prosperous bookie.
On stepping out the opposite side I continued to notice an abundance of nothing. In fact, if I had noticed anything I would advise you that the Celestial City is a more ideal destination than it is not. There was light, and there was no light. It is difficult to faithfully describe the erudition of nothing.
Possibly I expected more, but absent imagination, anticipating profoundly grandiose scenery plundered by the entertainment conglomerate, I found less. As it was, the curious shortage of street hustle and zero population, no sidewalk benches, no noisy autos or tourist buses, no nothing, made me wonder what had become of my devoutly deceased ancestors. It also caused me to wonder what would become of me were I to remain too long absent from home.
An attendant, ticket taker, token prophet or holy savior could have been provided to welcome me after my having laboriously expended so much of my precious time to arrive. The end of nothing is somewhat disconcerting. You may trust that I will take this complaint up and write a letter to the damnable conglomerate. Yet, as we think we sow.
The thought of writing a letter to hell brought vivid images to my mind by way of vociferous blasphemy. So then, wonder of wonders, as quickly as I found myself amidst nothing then as instantly I found myself not alone.
He telepathetically laughed outright, my new friend, a curious mix between a large eyed lizard, a googlemensch, and a 40-watt light bulb, gray and pallid of scaly skin, and in the midst of which cachinnation, a smoke-wreath hissed from his nostrils -- he had not a mouth or anything resembling lips -- while a twinkle of butane flame darted out of either eye, proving indubitably that the conduit was a ruse, an abomination, and that in this instantaneous reality an alien abduction was shortly to occur wherein I would be probed, prodded, and androgynously impregnated with the fetus of an alien-human hybrid.
Thinking less of this cliché development, I offered my friend a bottle of orange seltzer that he drank and peremptorily he burst.