The date on Murphy's calendar said that one month had passed since the smallpox inoculation, and looked down, trying to make sure that he wasn't Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense. Then again, he paid his bills, so he couldn't be dead.
That could be the new philosophy. Instead of 'I think, therefore I am,' We have 'I pay my bills, therefore I am.'
Murphy walked over to the sink and turned the knob.
Nothing. Murphy grabbed all of his belongings, for now shoved into a Wenger backpack. The Original Swiss Army Life.
He walked down the hall to the clerk at the desk, and told him to fix that faucet. He walked to the KFC across the street, and went into the bathroom.
He washed his face in the sink, and then he looked for sores on his face. Apparently, the antibiotic had worked. He grabbed the bag and swung it around so he could open it, and he grabbed his Ipad. He had bought 5.00 a week's worth of food, paid his rent at the motel, and with the difference bought that. He e-mailed the geek with the smallpox juice, and said that he was 100% certain that he was not dead.
Death isn't really talked about these days, and when it is, it's either really bad, or on CSI. Sooner or later, we all have to face the fact that we're all going to die, that the crazies on the street corners had it right all along. Murphy was always his own doomsayer, raining on his own parade. The people that knew him either dismissed it, or they questioned themselves. Who are we to be optimistic? The world is ending, slowly but surely, and nobody realized it, except for crazy people. Who are we, to say that we're destined for something special? Isn't that just self-superiority at the core? We all try to make ourselves bigger, get the next promotion, win the next contest. Should we be trimming down instead? Imagine a world where everyone strove for the simplest life possible. Everyone would be portable, everything would have one feature.
The Original Swiss Army Life.
The world would be untouchable by war, hate, or sorrow, because war overcomplicates things. War is the old manuscript on your desk, the one you just sweep aside into the wastebasket. Getting rid of the clutter. You couldn't hate anyone, because you couldn't judge anyone. Everyone would look where they're stepping, preoccupied with where to put their feet, and nobody would see the impossible happening. If ignorance is bliss, then that is what Utopia's all about.
((UNFINISHED: WILL COMPLETE AT SOME POINT!))