On the first day God created light, and he saw that he missed darkness. So he bought himself some black-framed Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses and went out into the street, where he came across humans who, having not yet been officially created, were covering their bodies with paramilitary rags, not realising they were already dressed. He saw them drinking cold beer out of plastic cups and feeling each other's ribs and whispering about the fearfulness of life under the neon signs of Nokia and Kawasaki and General Electric and Holiday Inn. And God went home feeling dejected, wondering what to create next.

On the second day he created music, bought himself a conductor's baton and started practising exitedly with his face to the wall of his study, until, suddenly, he felt a sense of foreboding, stopped humming the sarabande he was composing, turned around slowly and saw a group of minstrels gathered together in the centre of the desert, cursing, in a confusion of languages, the unknown force hammering in their temples, as if it would smash them in and abandon them to their destiny of wandering madmen in the middle of that infuriating wilderness.

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Last modified on September 5, 2011  | © Telegram 2005