Running Water … Rusting Pipes Vol. 3

About the Book

Time. Ever hear of it? You know, that thing which tick-tacks even when your heart stops; that thing which affects all and is by naught affected; which neither exists independently of man nor would cease to exist in his absence. Time. That’s what you’re doing. That mysterious element devoid of sound, color, smell, sub-stance, or space, although an integral part of it, traveling on neither waves nor particles, omnipresent yet nonexistent. That’s what you’re doing. Time. That curious anomaly which alone, in nature’s overabundance of cycles, and of all the abstract elements known to man, is absolute in direction and one direction only, with neither turns, nor curves, nor stops, nor speed limits—it even defies speed traps. You’re doing time, my friend. That man-made element of a variety of measures such as clocks, calendars, time zones, degrees, lati-tudes, longitudes, years, decades, centuries, milleniums, eons—all these and more, centered on Greenwich and based on natural cycles of the solar system that complement a constant and infinite flow of nothingness, which is as elusive to the old as it is trivial to the young. That’s what you’re doing, my friend. Time. The slowest and the most potent toxic element extant. You get the idea what you are doing, man?”

About the Author

When we have told Mr. Vladimir that we would like to write what is known in the trade as an “About the Book” page he, at first, did not respond. Then, after some deliberation, he said, “It’s all in the book.” “Yes, I know it is,” I said, “but, let’s face it, Mr. Vladimir, you are not a widely known personality. Even a madam nowadays has more right to write a book than has an unpublished author. What we’re trying to do is legitimize your right to appear in print.” “Well, you may be right,” he said. “Still, I cover that too in the book when I say, ‘My apologies for this prose run mad/But I thought it unfair/To deprive life of its share/While leaving records of my birth and death.’ However, if you want to write that page, go ahead, I’m not going to stop you.” Well, we admire Mr. Vladimir too much to further antagonize him. Not when, among other things, he speaks about the vanity of authors and in the same breath points out that if we keep on harping on “About the Author” there won’t be much room left for his picture. So I guess we’re not going to write an “About the Book” page.