A Typewriting Monkey Has an Existential Crisis

monkey at typewriter

Monkey Space-Time 112.367.793.0244
Didn’t get up today, as my ceaseless wakefulness prevents me from ever not being up. Sky was black, ground black, everything on the x, y, and z plane of the universe black. Only light was from work lamps, shining on our standard-issue Smith Coronas. Typed and thought about love.

Monkey Space-Time 112.367.793.0253
Clive called to me over cubicle wall today. Said he was starting a religion to deal with dreariness of spending life a typewriting ape in a never-ending sea of aimlessly typewriting apes. He’s writing bible now. Prophesies coming of the Chosen One, or first ape to type the Golden Words. Clive has no way to disseminate bible to the others, but he takes comfort knowing that at least one of us will stumble upon the same sequence of characters some time in the undying universe’s existence.

Monkey Space-Time 112.367.793.0259
Thought: It has come to my attention that this may not be first time an ape has written this exact diary. This exact character sequence may have been typed three, four, infinite times already. Originality and individuality are illusions. Any hope of being “Chosen One” slowly fading.

Monkey Space-Time 112.367.793.0266
Found something in my work today.

“…DF*(4m.q%dwes M@:adsf#$”daggaGod, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space—w&*Dndfgai¡h…”

What does it mean? Am I king of infinite space? Am I Chosen One?

Monkey Space-Time 112.367.793.0278
Was wondering. How did I learn how to read? How did I learn to reason? I guess out of infinite apes, at least one of us has to have stumbled upon those abilities. Maybe that means I really am speci4D&∑ s†490Î8 adπf#sgluukm.1’ds,¿dap..n1n  kldask!!!1%m

Monkey Space-Time 112.367.793.0284
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mÂ^%&qx’.,_._.’  Cordially Signed, Marcus the Ape*7#å_µ©j}k

 

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