For Hephum, a great man, the thoughts in his head are strangers.
Hephum in His Youth
In his youth, Hephum walks out of his way to pass the rich bar pretending to be a poor bar. On its windows the bar hangs a sign for local, cheap beer. Hephum peers into the window, eyes darting to inconsistencies: the bouncer checks IDs in a suit; the bartender is conspicuously hot, the laughter conspicuously melodic. A young man in jeans leans back on his hips and does not notice when a new group of people walks in.
At each scene, Hephum imagines 1000 things about the people: conversations which could have happened, arguments, fights, laughter, sex. But no thought sticks around: images mix for a moment then dart away, seeking other minds.
Two Close Friends
Two close friends share stories of their respective office places. “And then she called me Stephanie again even though she KNOWS I go by Steph. So finally I responded, ‘Who?’, and she never messed it up again.”
They talk for awhile….
“Look everybody is friends at work; we eat lunch as friends; we get drinks as friends. And so when two people aren’t liked at work they know that because they are excluded.”
“Oh for me — we’re not friends at work until I see that you’re useful.”
The friends talk and talk. For the friends, the words are strangers. At each moment, they imagine 1000 things to say: how that meeting was totally unfair, jokes, stories, pressures. But no words stick around: sentences blend for a moment, and then they float away, seek other ears.
Hephum
Hephum thinks “I hate basketball, because I don’t know how to tie my shoes”. In the rain, thoughts cross his mind: empires are created, fights are fought, orgies are fucked. All without any project undertaken. Hepuhm is wise because he abandons everything; every thought is a stranger. It comes so suddenly and disappears so quickly.
People come to Hephum because they are strangers to him and he is a stranger to himself.
Two coworkers come to Hephum for his advice on a conniving, plotting bitch. He responds: “Talk until the words don’t mean anything. Dream your dreams until they are as common as grass. Keep talking, talk so fast and so loud until you can’t hear yourselves.”
100 years later, a cult grows out of Hephum. The cult grows into a religion and its practitioners live in the town named after Hephum. Everyone is happy. Everybody is a stranger. When they pass another on the street their eyes meet for an instant before darting to another. But in that instant dreams are made into grass: everywhere, plentiful. Love is exchanged, revenge fulfilled, harsh whispers of passion. And then it is all abandoned and forgotten for the next thing, for the next thing to abandon.