He was an incomparable librarian. He had a gift; the merest touch of his finger brought order to objects. Books alphabetized themselves. Cards sorted themselves by suit and number. Patrons at his line found themselves changing places to keep their heights in order.
He worked diligently, but each morning more things were out of place. He went outside every night and saw the chaotic world, full of shouts, motion, and accidents. Entropy in action, muddling up the universe.
He rolled up his sleeves. It was a big job, but no one else was doing it. You had to start somewhere.
Mike Resnick on “No Heavy-Lifting Sales”
1 hour ago