JEAN SANTEUIL
Six years he wrote,
six years with hope,
until the fatal day,
epiphany of all epiphanies:
he opened the book
and saw his own ideas
lined up
so neatly
tidily, concisely,
the tersest possible
expression of all
the things he'd ever thought,
everything he'd ever seen,
everything he thought he knew.
It was all there before him
like a proof
of the non-existence of God.
