~Written 2020/11/6, to process Current Events.

The reader sat alone beneath a lovely oak tree whose branches twisted and turned to provide them with just the right amount of shade from the midday sun. The sun, too, had kept its temper in check— allowing the reader to enjoy an amicable temperature, which was further aided by the occasional caress of a gentle breeze. There could be no better conditions for reading, save for the potential addition of their favorite beverage— which they needed only a fifteen minute walk to obtain. The reader gave a silent chuckle to the thought. No, they could not rightfully complain— today was nigh perfect. What would a reader read on a nigh perfect day such as this? A moving book of poems? A powerful, inspiring script for a play? A tear-harvesting novel? Perhaps they could reach back in time to their younger years, and re-read a childhood favorite?

They would read none of these things. Nor would they read a recipe book from home, or an old journal— allowing them to reflect upon how they've grown and changed, or even a 532 page essay on the hidden beauty of hotdog eating contests. No— instead the reader had with them something quite unique. A single page newspaper. Well, the paper was printed upon a single sheet— but was technically 4 pages long due to it being folded in half— but the truth remains. It was a single page. The unique thing about this newspaper— besides consisting of only a single page— was that it did not contain a single page. It was comprised of an infinite number of possible pages, as each time the reader turned it over, the paper would change. Unfortunately, they had long ago forgotten who the publisher was— as after reading the paper's proud, bold-fonted title— they had naturally turned it. This, of course, meant they would never again see the title.

And so they simply referred to it as "The Paper." The Paper knew all sorts of things— whoever had published it must have employed journalists all over the world, as it contained not just stories from the reader's own town but those of their larger region, country, the news of a particular elementary school in Nagasaki, and just about any other place one may find on earth. All of it was translated into their own language— save for stories from a particular area that, from their limited understanding of the strange text, was called "Squiggly Squiggly Box Loop." These were thankfully rare. The reader trusted The Paper to provide them with everything they wanted to know— and so, they turned to it on this nigh perfect day fully anticipating to be met with nigh perfect news.

But The Paper was either playing games with them— or knew what the reader wanted better than the reader themselves. A man had been shot in a small village in Siberia— how terrible! The reader frowned all the way through the article on the event, concluding that whoever had commited the act must be dealt with immediately, and continued reading. The government of Luxemborg passed a particularly enraging tax law, the people of Squiggly Squiggly Box Loop seemed to be quite very upset with something they could not read, a beloved American actor had come out and said something terribly offensive, and war, world hunger, wealth inequality— god! There was just so much going wrong!

Action was needed— and soon. There was so much to be done and so little time for it to be done in! And so the reader did what any noble, concerned soul would do in this situation— they kept reading. They kept reading until they were angry at the results of a baking contest in Rio, enraged by the actions of the United States overseas, annoyed by advertisements, bitter at the results of a local election, outraged by a remake of a movie they loved as a child, cross with the global response to climate change, displeased with the war in Syria, and sullen that they had not gotten their favoured drink earlier.

By the time they had finally looked up from The Paper, the sun had begun to slip away, leaving a chilly breeze and growing darkness in its wake. How many times had they turned the page? They could not remember— and the count on the corner of each simply read "∞," which was of no help whatsoever. So, they wound up the paper— half-thinking to tear it to shreds before gingerly packing it under their arm— and began the trek back home. Their nigh perfect day had, in fact, been a perfect one.

A perfect waste of time.