He looked down on the broken world, scratched the silver fur that stretched out from his chin to eternity, and committed to fix it—the world that is, not his beard.
And all in seven days.
What best destiny for this place? He mused. A pairing algorithm, that ought to draw a new order; applied to mankind in kind in a cruel to be kind, kind of way. Every calling, be it vocation or aspiration realised, every lover in a less than perfect relationship reassigned; every match twixt man and woman, and woman and woman, and man and man—made. Every best destiny fulfilled, all those uprooted and shifted, prescribed and force-fed soma till their symptoms subside. All bets settled, all invoices paid, all aberrations fettled, and aggrievements assuaged. Every mucky car washed and waxed, every moon waned, every pothole filled, every murderer killed, every lock picked, every conman tricked, every lawn mown, every short-arse grown, all ditherers swayed, every fear allayed. To all dark some light, to all insomniacs…no night. To every tide a turn, no advances spurned, every wire connected, no child ever neglected.
And best of all…no page unturned.
It was Sunday afternoon.