Eulogy of the Bucket Staring at the Fields

A Story About Absolutely Nothing Remarkable.

A milk bucket sat on a rock.

Decidedly, particularly unremarkable by bucket standards, it stood eighteen inches deep, seven inches wide, with tarnished, purple patina wearing down the inscription etched on its side. No history on this bucket existed. No future prospects baited breathe for it. Truly told, every lackluster being in the known spectrum of multiverses, even the crumbles resting on Wilfred Wurmplfredoningtonflatherburt III born from a sandwich consumed by Wilfred Wurmplfredoningtonflatherburt XVI, were twenty, nay one hundred and sixty two to the power of ninety five, times more important than this bucket.

Enjoy this. That is all there is. No more story to tell about the unremarkable bucket can be made. The world has been informed of the universally applicable knowledge on the uselessness of this bucket. How utterly improbable it is that anyone will ever come to love this bucket. How it will die alone sitting atop a rock, unfulfilled in every way. Feel free to insult the bucket, it has no feelings. It will not feel offence, rage, or fall into a depressive spiral ultimately sending it flying off the rock.

Lavish the bucket in social affection if you like, it remains a simple milk bucket.

Love the bucket if you choose. No one can make this bucket remarkable, no matter how hard they try. It is simply a milk bucket.

Absolutely nothing more.