Bullshit

Silence. It's never absolute. Even in the most confined of the quietest places, there is a vague ringing in the background. There is no source. It could be the sound of blood pounding through your veins, it could be hidden crickets in the wall. But there is that ringing.

A Tv comes into view amidst the blackness. A TV in a room lit by a dim red lamp. Purely for effect.

It's an old TV. That much is clear from the static. The new ones don't show the static. There is just a blue screen keeping in pace with the Microsoft generation. I have read that the visible evidence of Background Microwave Radiation of the universe is the static in your television. We are actually witnessing the remnants of the Big Bang (or whatever theory you might prefer) by looking at the static.

The man who has the only seat in the room seems not interested as if to mock bearded sentinels of theology. He is intently staring at a crack in the wall, illuminated garishly by both the dim red lamp and the aformentioned static from the TV. The crack runs deep, horrendously anthropomorphizing the dead wall. The wall is of some generic color that looks undecided. It could be beige. He continues his investigation of the crack.

He suddenly lifts his shirt up and examines his belly button. It looks like a squashed oval. He scratches his beard in contemplation. There is some significance here that he can't quite place.

"An otherwise linear time bends upon itself to create ugly, so-called patterns that we call memory. Curiously, memory is never in first person. Why? I see myself in those scenes. How?"

The silent ringing returns with a vengeance, as if in anger at the interruption. The first stars are born.