He capped a flask and hissed a quiet curse — Bleakly smiling, tapped a switch to bleed A pressure vessel. (Clearly what he needs, To manufacture his own Universe, Is time — not years — millennia of time And funding ready to withstand the strain Of a black hole. He needs stars in his brain And something like the ocean in his mind.) A project which, at length, had gripped his thinking That final night he jettisoned — he gave It back to God. (Clearly the scale was wrong!) Muttering like one who has been drinking He slumped upon his record safe and craved The simple chunk of gold there all along.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
The script ran 0.001 seconds.