Fat Sam Ran Fast

Sam ran. Sam ran fast. Fat Sam ran fast.




With this understood, we must ask, why is Sam running? Is Sam running simply because he’s fast? Or is Sam running only because he’s fat? Or does Sam just like to run?

What if we’re asking the wrong question? Is Sam actually running? Perhaps, Sam isn’t running at all. Perhaps, the author lied. But if the author lied, would you even know? Would it even matter? And if somehow it did matter, would it matter that it matters? Maybe that’s all I do is lie, but only in a fictional sense.

Or maybe we accept the lie because we know that in essence, it is simply a lie. The fantastical fictional, the enthralling escapade, the stomach-squeezing suspense: anything but non-fiction.

What if it’s more than a lie? What if music and literature possessed metaphysical properties that actually enact the human soul and supersede tangible properties? What if reality, in all its realness, is simply a field for us to daydream and surpass mentally, if only for 672 pages?






Or what if Sam’s just fat?



Either way, let the fatty run until his fat legs give out.