The idolized roots of high literature

Thought experiment

First, there was the light.

A strange source of illumination, filling the center of the man’s mind. Civilization had need of new baubles and he — the inventor — would compose of them.

There would be prizes and awards. Everything from the zipper to velcro was filed and categorized by memory’s firm listing system and he knew how much each had made.

Another source of light had joined the first and he was blurring in thought now. Additional measures would have to be taken, a boost given, a jump in excitability of neurons and synapses.

He smiled, and there were showers of confetti around his face, and he felt a cold wind blowing against his facial skin. This was Toronto in the year 2040. He was 28 years old. A penis sheath covered his member, which he lovingly cradled in both hands when he was bored.

He plopped down on a 3-legged stool and began.

The diagrams he drew were complex and variable, darkly inked and subtly shaded. A pale green light fell over him as it did the whole room. He would not smile, although, unlike every man in the world, he could do a fair smile, better than the filth:holes. His goal: [intrinsic] was to come up with a simple invention that would fulfill a need in world’s commerce and which would be patentable. The patent was key.

As one-half of his mind worked on the blueprint, the other half of it occupied itself with thoughts of the patent. This man was a new type of man, you see, capable of dividing his thoughts in as many as 4 distinct lanes at a time. Future iterations — sexual generations — would work on this ability, tweak it, improve it. Evolution had not stopped; with the introduction of so many human beings on the landscape — in a radical new landscape, mass millions society — hastening it on too.

In two weeks, he was done. His gadget was made by the 3-D printer in a few moments of pouring of materials. The man’s penis sheath bounced as he ran from the kitchen where he was eating savagely to the font of all goodness, the high-tech printer. The tameness of the printer, and its quiet off-stage, contrasted with the violence of ever-shifting expressions across the man’s face.

His prize was here. All 4 lanes of his mind were synchronized for joy. He smashed the printer to bits to destroy the memory of its blueprint. He ran to the window and yanked it open in his high-rise building and threw his successful gadget to the winds.

He had realized, caught himself, at the last moment that successful gadgets would make him rich and well-known. The twin curses. So he wasn’t going to go down that road. He had enough money. His friends generally left him alone — even though their penis sheathes were smaller than his, activating cause for jealousy if you thought of it. But if that be jealousy, how much fame and money and many sex objects would swell their chests and tear at the bonds between him.

The inventor vowed never to invent again.

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