Simply Sipping Soup is perfect if you're in the middle of your dining room, in the blank of autumn in the light, except when you are simply sipping soup, in the dark hours of the night.
Timothy Cronwell was his name, but nobody knew it. Not even Timothy himself. He was always referred to as Mr. Spacer, not because it rhymed, but only because he always kept away from everybody else.
In fact, Mr. Spacer, or Spacer as we shall call him, did not comprehend of the existence of other beings, for he did not live in a world like ours, but a world where the prettiest rose is never seen; where the starts never glistened; where music was never played.
So what, you may ask, did Mr. Spacer do? Spacer was a worker, diligent like few. He sat all day in just a simple looking chair. Next to a simple looking desk, on which sat a simple looking screen.
And on this screen he watched and stared, and the ever growing mist. A pale-blue, expanding light, looking like a moon. And Mr. Spacer watched this screen for all his life, while sipping at his soup. He watched the cloud turn into dust, and into quiet shapes.
So this is where the story begins my friend, at the screen of Mr. Spacer, staring at the lives of women and men, flashing before our eyes.
Thus, reader, I ask of you one simple task.
Before and after you read this to the last.
I ask that you will not repeat,
anything that you see now, in your seat.
Not because the events are to be concealed,
but that the truth shall never, never, be revealed.