Over the Hill and Far Far Far

Here sits four decades wrapped in a bitter, wrinkling shell. The room is gloomy and filled with unsuccessfully hidden magazines. The centrepiece is a second-hand over-varnished Elizabethan desk with a stylish computer on it. The decades are tapping their furious and frail fingers on a transparent keyboard and causing letter-shaped pixels to appear on the screen. No relating years or friendly years are ever seen to be in the room. On the bright side, the decades have upped their quotient to two posts a day. Today's post reads as follows:

Desolation squats above me like a ludicrous mosquito and lowers a tendril of despair into my vein. Outside, the collective world meets friends at a coffee shop and buys gifts for their adorable spouses. The day starts at morning, reaches the centre at midday and peaks at night time, yet to me this is only apparent through the light-levels in my room. I hate every wretched lung of personkind — mainly because I am part of it. There's no way to succeed in life. Not in this life. Not in this endless bowl of false fish and employment. I gaze upon my beautifully awful walls and picture myself sliding into 10 to 6 aprons. Loneliness is the only true emotion. I don't trust anyone who isn't lonely. Lonely. Yes, I'm quite lonely. I think I'll look at porn.

The decades are very proud of this addition. In celebration, they read through all the previous additions to remind themselves of how clever they are. As each giggle and exhale of awe is wrung from the text, the decades wonder how no one else appreciates it the way they do. Except maybe those loyal fans from decades ago. They've stopped posting comments, but the decades are certain they are still there. Somewhere.

Here stumbles the decades upon a 21 year old post from August. No one will notice, they think. No one will mind. So they lift the second paragraph and paste it in a much younger post.