PJ Swift

Rolling around

What's wrong with her?

She's lost all her marbles.

All of them?

Yes.  See how much she is distraught.

But what about him?

He's never had any marble at all. 

Is that a problem?

Well. Nothing but blank stare is what you'll get out of him.

And what about that fellow? The one over there.

He believes he is a marble.  Rolling around.  He is the happiest one of them all.

Keeping on a roll

The rolling thumbs roll into town and return to work.  The rolling is to generate a story.  The story is not to put Swift to sleep. But to keep Swift awake.  Sometimes that’s the best a story can do, keep one awake.  So the thumbs keep rolling and rolling, perfecting their rhythm, keeping on a roll.

Such numbers roll

That weary soul that works without end and barely sleeps and carefully controls the sparse morsels that he eats, the one who has little time to interact except for a suspicious glance, and perhaps a word of self-congratulation, masked as humility. The one who barely notices the family he has there, and abandons friends for utility, and does so effectively. The one who sweats in predawn artificial environments and will not allow a moment not to have a billable component.  That man is rich?  Who said so? And who sold their own soul to make such numbers roll?