The Journal of Applied Impossibility
There is nothing I can do to unbreak this world.
The utmost Sisyphean work -- to slam oneself against the crushing, towering, unrelenting, nigh-omnipresent, spectral mass of spacetime -- cannot suffice.
The warp and woof of our universe is aught but the coiled spring against which my efforts cannot prove so much as an escapement. How could I hope to slow, or even to regulate strictly everything in its inevitable creep toward the heat death?
The watch I keep upstairs runs down.
The candle I kindle indoors burns out.
And nothing: nothing, nothing can stanch the wound spring uncoiling.
I write about all sorts of things. This is one of the places where I do it.