/lit/ - Literature

Imagine a junkie. He's skinny, like he was freshly liberated from a concentration camp skinny. And dirty, hair is just a mat of tangles. Skin covered in a layer of grime. Wearing clothes that haven't been washed in years. He's leaning against the pale, bare concrete wall of the apartment he's in. He's smoking a cigarette. He's hungry, but has no money for food. The fire alarm goes off, but he's too tired to do anything about it.
The last time he ate, he'd hidden behind the curtains in a public library until it was closed, then snuck into the backroom through the hole in the machine you put your book returns in (he was indeed skinny enough to fit) and stole the cash from the register that was kept there.
This junkie has an IQ of 143. He's 26 years old. He's a Libra and his favorite song is One Night in Bangkok by Murray Head. He has never had a job and he dropped out of high school.
His life is about to change forever. But before we talk about that, let's check in on Ms. Weston. She's an old maid at 68, a busy-body and an insufferably stuck up woman. She is the person who calls 911 to alert the fire department. She rushes out of her apartment in a bathrobe, phone in hand, and rings doorbells while running downstairs and shouting FIRE, FIRE. Some open their doors and wonder what's happening. Others choose to ignore it, thinking it's a ploy of some kind, with malicious intent behind it. She leaves her own door unlocked, and thus her parakeet flies out of the apartment and into the hallway.
The day before the windows had been cleaned. The confused bird flies against a pane, suffering no serious harm but dropping a feather on the stairs. As the firemen climb up, this feather is lodged to the bottom of one of their boots. Upon their entry into the junkie's apartment the feather is freed and it falls, there to lay until the junkie picks it up, leaving him utterly confused.
The name of that junkie? Albert Einstein.