NP Hemingway, rain, death and....chickens

[platypus91 at excite.com]

> WHY DID THE CHICKEN CROSS THE ROAD?> > THOMAS PYNCHON
The road lay ahead; barren, desolate. The chicken pondered her fate. Would the Car be there again, lurking in the darkness? What boundless consciousness propelled her to this road, again and again and again? Was it the workings of some mad conspiracy; perhaps the Colonel's work? Or was it blind, egoless fate, leading her to her final, probably flat fate? She shook: a final thought of the eggs that were her pride...cooked. The rooster that had been her life...cooked. Nothing left to lose. Nothing to gain but perhaps the knowledge of what lay on the Other Side.
 
 

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