Archimedes and I are in the bath as all great thinkers are. His body is grey and wrinkled in a way you only see with people who have been sat in the bath for two thousand two hundred and sixty-nine years. The fool is stuck in eternal Eureka with his balls hanging loose. They are extremely dangly. It is kind of obscene. It’s gravity, Archimedes says, when he sees me looking. Chin out, dirt-grey beard flung over his shoulder, prideful like he’s invented the term. A short story by Hana White.
