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epitome of incomprehensibility
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"I'm angry at everybody, but I can't hate anyone," the woman with crying glasses told the stars.
The stars consulted among themselves. Should they draw straws?
They did, connecting the dots. Orion became an hourglass, Cassiopeia a W.
It was just what she expected. "Being the universal centre bores me," she sighed. The arms of her glasses dripped thin tongues of sorrow.
Something struck her head, and it took her a second to realize it hadn't hurt. On the rain-slicked grass lay a single straw, pinstriped with the red of artificial cinnamon. Naturally, this straw grew eyes like the ancient paperclip of Microsoft Word. "Oh, get over yourself," it shrilled.
She looked up, and the stars had drawn intricate crystals between themselves, had clothed their correspondence in the orange and blue of metro lines, their connections in the word Vorbindung, their conjunctions in va and ca.
"We've accommodated to what you can comprehend," the star-straw laughed. "You're not the centre. You're just a dot like any of us." (It in fact was not a dot, but that's a story for another night.)
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