Why.

Why? The cursor winked back at Reece.
Reset. Respect. Rescind. Rhesus.
Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?
Why did the chicken cross the road? 
Why try different writing styles to find a voice?


Jacques Derrida: Any number of contending discourses may be discovered within the act of the chicken crossing the road, and each interpretation is equally valid as the authorial intent can never be discerned, because structuralism is DEAD, DAMMIT, DEAD!


Ernest Hemingway: To die. In the rain.


Why? The cursor continued to wink at Reece.
Why would I?
Why what where...?
Why had he questioned her?
Why the long face?
Why all the fuss?
Why me?
Why not?


He'd always had an issue with the biology of the birth. Out of his mother's (his mother's!) vagina. And what sort of conception was it? Dad never offered him this information as a tease, and he didn't ask. Reece would wait until his own son turned 21 and then drop it on him in the speech. "You were concieved during a root of epic proportions. I was off my tree and your mother barely hanging from the branches of hers. It was the morning after a night of clubbing... my sperm must've been tied in knots. No idea how they swam the canal. Ha! Classic!" And then his boy would scull his yard glass. If he had a daughter he'd obviously change it up a little. Oh dear, a daughter. Complex and delicate creatures (females!) the likes of whom he'd barley learned to interact with even at his advanced age.