The Triumph of the Egg

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There is a story. – I cannot tell it. – I have no words. The story is almost forgotten but sometimes I remember. The story concerns three men in a house in a street. If I could say the words I would sing the story. I would whisper it into the ears of women, of mothers. I would run through the streets saying it over and over. My tongue would be torn loose – it would rattle against my teeth. The three men are in a room in the house. One is young and dandified. He continually laughs. There is a second man who has a long white beard. He is consumed with doubt but occasionally his doubt leaves him and he sleeps. A third man there is who has wicked eyes and who moves nervously about the room rubbing his hands together. The three men are waiting – waiting…