First of all, I was out of tea. It’s excruciatingly painful, it’s almost like the world’s ending. You begin to ponder your own mortality and shit. Secondly, I overslept. Well, not really, for I usually get up at this hour, but today was no usual day, oh no. I had a performance, you see. I had my first and only performance.
So I had to look nice: a freshly-ironed white shirt, one of those black ties …

This is a short story. This story is very silly. In fact, you would be better off not reading it.
John lived at home. At times he went out, and came back later. John had a cat. The cat’s name was Cat. John wasn’t very fond of complicated things.
John taught philosophy at university. There he spoke of the reasons behind it all, the matters of life and death, the purpose, the subconscious, the unconscious, and the …

The article is my début in Better Than Sliced Bread. When I asked the editors for any guidelines, their answer was ‘anything goes’. However, that much freedom felt overwhelming, and I decided to stick to at least some of the traditions already established in the paper.
So, continuing the long line of pointless observations and juxtapositions, this piece of writing was born.
As I write these lines, I’m sitting on a wooden bench on the fourth platform …