He was old and jolly, insightful, but not too wise.
He would sit in his favourite deckchair, barefoot, and twistle the sand with his toes.
After a breakfast of cake and coffee, brought every Thursday in a tight container, by his daughter and her bear, he would contemplate the movement of the stars.
He could, at certain times draw dot-to-dot and write whole stories from the positions they occupied.
He would reproduce them in the moon’s floury surface, with the intention of asking his daughter’s bear for a pen and paper.
Some would be considered good.
Many of the tales would have taught the universe a great lesson on the merits kindness and humanity.
He never, however, got around to copying them on to paper.
Every evening he would sigh and wash his dirty writing finger as he looked at the wonderful words he had composed in the sandy ground, spreading out as far as the eye could see.
Yet, who would read them? Who would take the advice of a man who lived on a floating rock? He thought. Society would laugh at my thoughts.
The warm fuzzy, nihilistic thoughts ate away at him until he grabbed a brush and cleared away his hard work.
“Today will take care of itself,” he grumbled. “Tomorrow: likewise. Without my help.”
He then shuffled back to his deckchair and waited for his cake and coffee.