The artist sits on the floor, covered in clouds and mountains and rivers, and wonders what the fuck he is supposed to be doing.
‘Are you alright?’ says his wife, at the door.
‘Yes. Fine.’
She glances around at the mess surrounding him. An eye in a storm of stars, asteroids, and moons. Nebulae are splattered everywhere.
‘Do you want a coffee or something?’ she asks.
He bursts into tears.
She sits with him a while and holds him in her arms.
‘I don’t know what I’m doing with this universe.’
‘It’s alright,’ she says, ‘I don’t think anyone does.’
‘But they do,’ he says. ‘They all make such incredible things and this-’ he points at the little bipeds he has made ‘-is fucking terrible.’
‘Do you think all those other universes started off perfect?’
He sniffs. ‘No.’
‘It takes persistence.’
‘It does.’
They sit in comfortable silence for a while.
‘I had a new idea.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s called, “Time.”’
‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’
Paddy Dobson
4th June 2022