“So tell us philosopher’s stone, what is the teleology of humanity?”
Jason blazed and fogged-up the library nook. He extended the joint towards the stone, who sat to his right—as was proper during times of war.
The philosopher’s stone pinched the tip of the scorpion joint and took a hit. “We just…we gotta—”
Smoke escaped in bursts with every syllable.
“—come together. Acquire knowledge. Power over this universe. And hope we can redesign it into something that doesn’t suck.”
“Woaaaah,” Matt said. “Why we though? Like, you ain’t even human, bro, you’re just a magical rock.”
The philosopher’s stone took another deep toke, and exuded a whole cloud of sweet Summer-Carolina Gold OG, enveloping the shelves with pure skunk.
“We are all guests of spaceship Earth, my dude. The universe would no sooner fuck you in the ass than me.”
The philosopher’s stone offered the joint to Matt, who took it without looking. “That’s pretty brutal, bro.”
The door to the library blew open. A group of crazed geophiles—their visages betraying an obvious ignorance of the importance of consent—fixed their eyes upon the stone.
It wept, for it knew the ways of the world.
— Bastian Espada