Sunday, 24 May 2009

From "The End of All Songs"

By Michael Moorcock.

He was content not to judge her mood but to share it. He laughed with her, springing up. He advanced. She awaited him. He stopped, when a few steps separated them. He was serious now, and smiling.

She fingered her neck. "There is more to literature than conversation, however. There are stories."

"We make our own lives into stories, at the End of Time. We have the means. Would you not do the same, if you could?"

"Society demands that we do not."

"Why so?"

"Perhaps because the stories would conflict, one with the other. There are so many of us -- there.'

"Here," he said, "there are but two."

"Our tenancy in this -- this Eden -- is tentative. Who knows when . . . ?"

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