The Scribe

Up till now I knew everything. How to spell Champs-Élysées. What is the year on Earth. Sound arising, layered. Each separate season in its time, wishing someone else had not already said it better. Or again, that this unfolding redeems the great undoing. Now nothing is more certain, my opinions flattened by a dubious claim: work, pain, compete to be the best, the usual. Men. I am. Further notes come of their own volition; I am only the scribe.