twelve serious men

Twelve serious men sit around a serious table. There are five to a side, one at each of the ends. The serious men are dressed identically: pressed dark suits, pinstriped shirts, purple ties. The chairman stands.

Each of the serious men has a stack of papers in front of him. They sit in twelve white rectangular columns. The men do not touch the stacks of paper, the stacks sit untouched. The papers are stacked in ten rectangular columns. Perhaps there are only twelve. A few seconds ago, when we first entered the room, these papers were not here; now, they have been here forever.

We will have time for questions later, says the Chairman.

There is a well-polished but old-fashioned air conditioner attached to the ceiling above the table. Twelve sheets of paper drift off of their perfect stacks, circle perfectly counterclockwise. Counterclockwise means: from right to left above, left to right below. It is the opposite of the way that time turns. Someone must have switched on the air conditioning unit, because twelve sheets of paper turn in a counterclockwise circle around the room.

The room is a blizzard of papers. The twelve perfect stacks of paper are obliterated. A man stands up from the table and opens a window. Perhaps it is too cold inside, or perhaps it is too warm outside. There is an old saying: it is better to light a candle than -- how does the saying end? Darkness, curse the darkness. There is a desert outside, it is comical to cool the desert with a single rectangular air-conditioning unit suspended over a long table.

The men are laughing hysterically. One of them is dangling out of the opened window. This is not a laughing matter. Only his pinstriped pant legs are visible now. The Chairman is sprinting across the room in slow motion, snow-white papers streaming around him. He is too late. Only shoes are visible above the window. The Chairman does not speak, but this is what he says: why did you not help him? He is one of ours, one of hours, One of Hours.

Two through Eleven are heckling the Chairman. The man at the opposite end of the table has no face. He is here to announce the end of the world, tick-tock tick-tock. The Chairman is leaning out the window to help One, then he is only pinstriped pant legs, then only shoes. The Chairman is plunging headlong to his death. The room is a blizzard of papers and a madhouse of laughter. The faceless man is finishing the chairman's presentation. This is meaningless, only a dream, only a dream.

We will have time for questions later, says the faceless man.