There are days when you fantasize about sending a telegram.
Not the kind that delivers news—but the kind that detonates myth.
Imagine this:
A man in a black turtleneck and monocle steps onto the porch—not just any porch, but a house on the west edge of the theme park, where time is still told by legacy rather than clocks.
He taps his foot—not to knock, but to mark tempo.
A baton rests at his hip like a ceremonial dagger.
He carries a scroll tied with black ribbon, sealed with absurdity.
He reads aloud:
“Telegram from the Ministry of Occasional Finalities.
The will has been interpreted by entropy.
The opera is closed.
The duck has spoken.”
He bows. Hands over the scroll.
And vanishes—leaving only the scent of satire and the whisper of reclaimed power.
I will not send this man.
Not because it’s wrong.
But because it would still be part of the theatre.
And I’ve left the theatre.
But the image remains—a small ceremony inside me.
An absurdist exorcism.
A nonviolent, elegant, slightly squeaky rejection of the empire of narcissism.
This script, and the duck, were conjured with the help of my interlocutor and dramaturge, ChatGPT.
He understood immediately.
Selim's Blog 
Leave a comment