Authors: Elliot S. Maggin
"You
know?"
Am
I
actually
talking
to
the
sheet
of
paper
I'm
writing
on?
That's
silly
too.
Hold
it.
There.
I
am
better
now.
I
was
talking
about
—
that
is,
writing
about
—
historical
corroboration.
I
have
been
keeping
a
record
of
news
events
which
seem
insignificant
to
the
media,
but
certainly
are
not.
As
I
was
saying
—
writing!
—
I
have
been
keeping
a
list
but
I
can't
seem
to
find
it
at
the
moment.
I
do
remember
a
tidal
wave
that
Superman
turned
into
a
snowstorm
over
Metropolis,
and
the
first
eruption
of
a
volcano
in
southern
Mexico
in
several
centuries.
I
can't
seem
to
remember
the
name
of
the
volcano,
but
it's
very
famous.
No
sign
yet
of
the
worldwide
eczema
outbreak.
I
do
wish
I
could
find
that
list.
It's
here
someplace.
I'm
generally
very
organized
about
these
things.
It's
having
to
live
in
this
tiny
studio
apartment
in
the
middle
of
this
noisy
city.
I
can't
find
anything
in
this
mess.
How
could
these
people
live
this
way?
Well,
I'll
find
the
list
sometime.
The
third
thing
is
how
comfortable
I've
been
feeling
here
for
the
last
three
or
so
days.
Except
that
I
haven't
been
able
to
get
much
sleep.
There
was
a
tidal
wave
detected
several
days
ago
heading
toward
Metropolis
harbor,
but
Superman
somehow
caused
a
snowstorm
which
stopped
it.
There
must
be
some
way
he
discovered
of
stopping
the
tides
with
snow.
My
third
point
had
to
do
with
how
comfortable
I've
been
feeling
for
the
last
two
days
or
three.
Except
I
don't
have
any
space,
you
know?
If
I
only
had
more
space
I'd
be
in
solid,
except
that
I'm
worried
about
why
Lena
Thorul
fainted
when
she
met
me.
She's
psychic,
I
may
or
may
not
have
mentioned,
and
she
may
have
seen
something
about
me
that
I
don't
know
yet,
like
I'm
getting
sick
from
lack
of
sleep.
The
third
thing
was
that
I'm
starting
to
feel
like
I
like
it
here
because
I'm
making
friends
and
feel
like
I
fit
in
but
actually
don't.
I
want
a
cup
of
coffee.
I
met
a
young
reporter
named
Jimmy
Olsen
who
I
think
was
a
friend
of
Superman's
in
the
twentieth
century.
He
had
red
hair
and
freckles
and
no
hair
on
his
chest.
I
read
that
somewhere.
No,
maybe
that
was
Andrew
Jackson.
I
always
get
those
two
mixed
up.
I
just
went
to
boil
some
water
for
instant
coffee
and
I
found
a
hot
mug
of
it
on
the
counter
next
to
the
stove.
I
must've
made
it
myself
without
even
thinking.
I
couldn't
have
made
it
myself,
because
I'd
at
least
remember
hearing
the
kettle
whistling.
I
must've
just
made
it
because
it's
really
hot.
And
it's
black
with
no
sugar,
the
way
I've
been
drinking
it
the
past
three
or
two
days.
Good.
It
tastes
bitter.
Maybe
I'm
being
watched.
James
Bartholomew
Olsen
Junior
was
a
Supermanic
Era
journalist
who
won
the
Pulitzer
Prize
four
times
between
1980
and
2014,
when
he
was
killed
on
Mars.
He
was
filming
an
exclusive
interview
with
Prince
Anand
Patwardhan
of
the
Confederacy
of
Martian
Principalities
in
Sagantown,
then
the
Martian
capital,
when
the
city
was
destroyed
by
the
combined
forces
of
the
North
Atlantic
Treaty
Organization
and
the
Warsaw
Pact.
His
daughter,
Noel
N.
Olsen,
was
the
eleventh
secretary-general
of
the
United
Nations;
his
older
son,
James
Bartholomew
Olsen
the
Third,
was
chairman
of
the
board
of
Galaxy
Communications
and
later
director
of
the
United
States
Information
Agency;
and
his
younger
son,
Clark
Perry
Olsen,
was
the
archaeologist
who
found
conclusive
evidence
of
Superman's
secret
identity.
That
seemed
to
type
itself
on
the
paper.
That
last
paragraph.
Maybe
my
typing
is
getting
better
than
I
realized.
All
I
did
was
write
that
stuff.
I
didn't
remember
it
all
until
I
read
it
there.
But
that
can't
be
true,
since
I
typed
it
myself.
I
must
have.
I
saw
my
hands
moving.
I
need
some
sleep,
but
I
can't.
Actually
I
looked
away
from
the
typewriter
for
a
moment,
although
my
hands
must
have
stayed
on
the
keys,
because
I
felt
the
keys,
I
think,
under
my
fingertips
and
when
I
looked
back
I
saw
that
paragraph
about
Jimmy
Olsen's
career.
I
must
have
typed
it.
I
wonder
where
that
cup
of
coffee
came
from.
I'm
scared.