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Myron Epimetheus
The young elvish woman’s protestation of boredom reaches his ears just as he was about to return to his reading and jotting down of notes. To be distracted twice in a few moments after so many years of uninterrupted thought is a puzzling thing. “Bored, she said. She said that she is bored. But there is simply so much to do that I fail to understand how she might be bored. Yes. Yes, there is just so much to do and so many, many thoughts to think. O dear! It seems her being bored has caused me to lose my place. I must find it again. A terrible thing it is to have lost one’s place – why the thought of a mind set adrift away from its thoughts is simply too terrible to linger with!” He stares vacantly a moment shuddering in horror at this thought until his restlessly moving mind seizes upon the idea of place and its absence. He laughs softly in delight at a new puzzle to pursue and begins to scribble on the small square napkins which are so wonderful for the writing of notes, muttering cryptic things about curvatures in space produced by the presence of physical bodies.
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