Egghead: Or, You Can't Survive on Ideas Alone

by Bo Burnham

I would move a mountain for you if that mountain could be moved with a button or with a lever that wasn’t too cold to the touch.

How fitting, she thought to herself (or just thought, as she was the only person to whom she had ever thought). How fitting, she thought, that her words, after tumbling in her head all day, came out shrunken like they were meant for a child.

I wrote you a letter, and then another letter, and another, and another, until I wrote you a word. So I wrote you a word, and then another word, and another, and another, until I wrote you a sentence. So I wrote you a sentence, and then another sentence, and another, and another, until I wrote you a letter. I hope it finds you as I found you. Yours truly, Yours, truly.