The 60s were Rough on Scientists

A tribute to the late Hunter S. Thompson.

Although late, due to his coffee spilling on his lab coat, he got to the lab. His first task was to turn on the light. After that, anything could happen. There was a miraculous composition of glass shaped objects, ceramic supplements, and metal structures. Each one more overwhelming than the last. He took a big sigh and hoped it would help. It didn’t work, a yawn came out instead. Perplexed by his body’s lack of cooperation, he realized sitting down might be a good secondary task. Some of the greatest accomplishments in the world started there, sitting. He evaluated his situation; rubbing his face then took place. He stood up, grabbed one of the glass objects, and poured a green fluid into it. He then placed it on the Benison Burner. He was conducting the act of science, he thought. Only a human in his exact position could effectively understand the inner workings of the world. He had understood the secrets for a while now.

These secrets were simple: never tell a lie you won’t remember, no day is the same as the last, and no friend of a politician would be a friend of his. This was more difficult than anyone could possibly imagine to integrate into the now. Silence fell over him and he fell over to answer its pleas of attention. An angel must have been in that damn room on that clouded day. A repetitive whistle, no lower than a whistle, a sizzle fought a brutal battle with the silence. Nearly every object in the room was a casualty of this war. The sizzle started small, so small. It quickly realised silence had no second plan but to maintain a presence. All the angel of sound needed to do was battle it. It increased in power and turned into a cuthunkering of bubbling indications of space, time, flavour, and happiness. No expression could match the energy levels emanating in the room. What happened next seemed like it would secure the angel of sounds win of the war. A sudden flanking of an oddly familiar popping and sprinkling of notes reverberated from the floor to the windows. Hopefully nothing outside was affected as heavily as we were. The angel had given it everything she had. But silence’s stealthy and strategic move of only needing to stand there and watch his temporary loss eventually assured his victory.

I had loved that angel more than anything. The scientists chest was tightening. He realized he couldn’t go on without her, his body would self destruct. A cloudiness had settled over the room and the sorcerer of silence had come to take him next. He could no longer speak. Only his emotional frequency of despair was heard in the room. The war had been won, as it always will be, by the evil that is silence.