The Perilous

Chairs can be comfortable, ugly, too hard, squishy, free-form and not much like a chair, to chairs of classic shaker type manufacture. Some are made from wood, others from plastics, still others stone. Hilarity doth ensure when a half-broken wooden chair holding a stoner is viewed by another stoner with the first stoner falling flat on the ground after said chair disintegrates into disparate pieces of random wood which has recenctly become unable to properly function as a chair. That is the chair Hilarious.

Yet other chairs abide the user to entreat perdition. Skychairs hanging over the edge of the grand canyon, one blocking the entrance to a shi-shi restaurant (say Appleby's back in the early 90's), one fired with the electrical current with a warden at a switch on the other end, a chair such as that found on the bridge of any nvaval vessel thence empowered with the authority to encompass the fates of many. Oh! such chairs. To compare with the untold counts of chairs as found within the cloistered halls of the first Earl of Sandwich. These indeed are the chairs Perilous.

Twirled within the coiled possibilities of bound DNA strands are the chairs of minuscule drivers of macro-atomic dump trucks. Chairs for those guiding the replication and continual destruction and construction of self regulating roadways of life. Chairs, chairs twisting, turning, rolling and knotting, escheresque into a swirl of encoded mechanisms of the very unzippered rules of the blueprint of all mostly all chairs that to be or wantonly aspire to be. Such are the chairs Minute.

The last chair sits upon a dais of which to name is to unmake it. Not to mention that the fat little anteater father time keeps to feast upon the ants which continually come and try to create a nest in his sands of time hourglass is starting to look this way and appears none to happy about the prospect of having to interrupt his current dining fare in order to chase those away who would trundle about the room believing for a few seconds that in the game of musical chairs that the last seat in all of time is somehow going to be left open, an inviting and comfy place to sit for all eternity. The trick though, give an anteater peanut butter. The chair shall be yours.
This shall be the chair of all times. To be continuously surrounded by a wailing anteater and a circling and very angry dispossessed time-lord engaged in endless pursuit of his favorite misbehaven pet. Abide it well.