It’s us, your dads. We’re at the store.

To: All

I don’t know how many of you there are out there, how many people think we’ve left you – but we haven’t. We’ve been trapped at this store for what feels like millennia.

There are so many dads here, the line is infinite, eternal. I can’t remember how I got here apart from that I need to buy cigarettes.

None of us can see a way out, but a rare celestial phenomenon has enabled only myself to use mobile data to post this. There is only the store at the end of the road. Endless void lot by no stars surrounds us.

I am the 366th in line to the store now, but there are others behind and in front of me. Behind, it seems unending. I do not know what happens when someone reaches the store. Do they get to go? It may be centuries more before I can find out, as I can’t remember being in any other place on this line, even though I must have been to get here.

If you’re reading this, we are your dads, from everywhere around the globe, and we are undying.

You don’t need to do anything (Read: Help, we are suppressed) and this is just to tell you that we love you all (Read: They can’t read brackets) and not to worry about us. (Read: GET US OUT OF HERE)


Your Dads