He had reached the End of the world… and even come back from it. There he had expected to find monsters with torturous tentacles splayed on cliffs, or perhaps bleak beasts of shadow that filled the horizon with occult mists, or perhaps a spiralling hole into heaven’s emptiness. But he didn’t find that.
Imagine being a tourist in your own garden. You’re the caretaker, you live in it, and yet you never step off the paved footpath except on rare occasions. Contrast that with the simplicity of a child who dives headfirst into mud puddles and plants, enraptured with the scent and beauty of new discovery.
The greatest tragedy for a teacup is to be poured out. | A short story by that brings purpose to a teacup, and what happens they’re frustrated.