The last postmodern

The last postmodern sat alone in a silent white room, reading the tiny irregularities on the spotless, pristine walls. There was a knock at the door.

He hesitated. Nothing had penetrated his silence since he could remember. With trembling hands he turned the knob. There was no one there! But beyond the doorway he could see a marvellous vista of vast, verdant woods and flowering gardens. Everywhere a riot of vegetation engulfed the eye with colors and a burgeoning excess. In the trees he could see shadowy figures flickering as if transported in some kind of trance or dance. Intoxicating perfumes assaulted his senses and a distant flute seduced his ears.

Realizing that this earthly paradise was not as susceptible to interpretation as the white room, he stepped back into his hermeneutic heaven and shut the door.