Can you imagine an infinite monkey
possessing a typewriter and paper, who,
without knowing anything, but with endless time,
creates the finest literature?
My most German thought was: the machine would break first
- or is it unbreakable, that should be defined.
And if so, he would probably attack his paper
which might also seem endless after a while.
And so he might move on to trying to break
that eternal machine moking him.
Until God - hopefully - shows finally mercy
by providing him nature and someone to be with.
If your husband is a mathematician
don't force him into a Shakespeare play.
"A monkey could have written that"
haunts me now due to one of them.
To be or not to be.
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