From the archives of a Time Treaveller's Secret Society. Unedited.

Treatise on Unprofitableness

“Our outward and inward structure is full of imperfection;

but there is nothing useless in nature, not even inutility itself”

- I can’t remember where I got this quote from... Probably from Montaigne’s Essays?

I-II

Okay, so it was the autumn of 1650. Deep in the gloomy woods, about 20 miles from London, I encountered a man from a nearby village. For some reason, I told him almost right away that I was a time traveler, but who he was took me a bit longer to learn… I knew his name was Richard, and he came across as a bit of a weird persona. Along with the oddity, there was a deep, deep, primeval melancholy about him, which, though it didn’t draw excessive attention to itself, was nonetheless perceptible. Also, what unsettled me from the very outset was how friendly he was to a stranger like me, the one who claimed to be a “time traveler”. Before, I spent two months wandering England, trying to find someone to make my way to London with, without raising suspicion. But all I found was misunderstanding and superstitions towards me. So, I was driven from town to town, from village to village.

And this man took it all too easily… And it really messed with my head: “Where was his suspicion? Should I wait for something unexpected from him? Or maybe he's just crazy?” When I asked him if he believed I was a time traveler, he said something like, "Perhaps! Or perhaps not, it doesn't matter much to me. Just think about it: an actor also lies publicly when he takes on different roles. But in fact he doesn’t! Because all his lie is a prolific metaphor, revealing a truth truer than the most truthful words! And I, you know, I also consider myself lost in time, just like you. I might be even more lost in time than you are! However, let’s better go to my place for some cider."

At his place, over mugs of sour, harsh, and slightly bitter apple liquid, Richard spoke of a changed London, of its people, and of his own life. And with each mug and each story, he seemed to become less strange and more comprehensible to me. And I wonder, will he become comprehensible to you, my dear-cool-wonderful reader, as well, if I tell you what I remember and what seems right to mention? Well, I won’t hear your answer, so I’ll tell you anyway…

Our good old woodsman was once a successful actor in London, and his eminent troupe performed at the Globe, beloved by the public. Ah, what glory days those were! Though even then, storm clouds were already hanging low all over the kingdom; even then, you could already feel the tension in the air. Everyone felt something was bound to happen… Well, and if something is bound to happen, it always inevitably does, right? The summer of 1642 came along, bringing civil war and a revolution under the banner of Puritanism. The Puritans had no desire to live under an absolute monarchy, while the king desired it with all his heart, for which he lost his head, figuratively speaking. But ultimately speaking, he lost his head in the most literal sense possible: upon the scaffold the year before last. And so, having seized power, the Puritans declared a cultural war on Catholicism and monarchy. They looked at all the giant cathedrals around them and saw nothing but an empty wastefulness. You know, to live a spiritually pure life, you need neither theaters, nor good architecture, nor music, nor even Christmas. Because all these excesses corrupt your soul and distract you from serving God. By the way, the Puritans had a special view on that too: to serve God, you had to work very hard to earn money and get rich, and on no account spend your surpluses on worldly pLeAsUrEs.

That’s why London’s theaters were shuttered at once, in that very year of 1642. Some actors went underground, while many others sought for new trades and new incomes. Richard found himself among the latter crowd. The first idea on how to make money he came up with was selling all the stage prop he had at the market. But he did it with such a theatrical flair and parodied the other merchants so much, that he succeeded only in scaring the customers away. And, to be honest, I’m not even sure if his products weren’t practically worthless. Then he tried himself at teaching dramaturgy for cash - that flopped too, and I can’t really remember why. Another idea he tried was to return to his village of Epping and become a beekeeper and sell honey under a “BEE GLOP” name. The problem with that idea was that Richard was completely inept at harvesting honey. He was also scared of the bees and, as a result, couldn’t compete with others. His final idea was to sink into total depression, become a Latin teacher for the village kids at the local church, and drown his sorrows in cider every night.

One evening, we were sitting at his house, and he was trying to draw a conclusion from his experience. At first, he tried to distill it into some kind of wisdom, but then fell silent and, with an infectious thoughtfulness, started staring into his mug of cider:

“People in London have changed a lot. I look at them all, and sometimes I simply can’t grasp what they are thinking and feeling. And they probably can’t grasp what I think and feel as well. Heaven forbid you do something that doesn’t lead to making money or boosting your status! They’ll eat you alive with their ‘why?’, with their ‘for what reason?’ Ah… So, here I am. A man who spent his whole life playing others, now wonders which is worse: to feel superfluous to society for who you are, or to feel superfluous to yourself from pretending to be someone you never wanted to be?”

Having said this, he shifted his deeply thoughtful and serious gaze from the cider to me to catch my reaction. Seeing my earnest face, he… You know what? He burst out laughing! Laughing at me! And I understood that all that thoughtfulness and seriousness had just been his feigned little performance for me! Or had it? Maybe it was genuine after all? You can never really know, and I don’t know either… After that, he took his mug, drained it in one go, and disappeared into his den.

That was his character trait I wanted to tell you about first, since it was noticeable from the very beginning… You could never tell whether he was being sincere and genuine or whether he was just joking and performing a scene for you. Since real theater ended in his life, his life decided to transform itself into a one-man theater. If he misspoke or chose his words in an awkward way, it was never accidental – he was testing his acting material on you. When he was praying in church, he wasn’t praying; he was performing the role of a repentant sinner. He even bragged about how once he played that role so well that the neighbors gossiped for a long time, trying to guess which grave sin he was begging forgiveness for… And during shared dinners, it was fascinating to watch his every gesture – the way he ate, how he held his knife while cutting meat... well, I know it might sound strange, but there was something deliberate, something theatrical, and yet undeniably captivating about it. I believe he truly was a talented actor. He was…

But as you get to know him, you get used to his character and his quirks. Soon, a feeling emerged that you had already learned everything interesting there was to know about him, everything “alive” within him; and what remained was a certain… not sure what to call it… deadness? He wasn’t really interested in my biography, or in anything happening beyond his own walls anymore. Most of what he was talking about were stories from the past, but he had almost nothing to say about his present life. When his autobiography was exhausted, he began talking incessantly about his own death, about a feeling of emptiness, about no longer knowing what to do. At first, of course, I was understanding. But then, I began to feel myself emptying out, drained by these conversations, by being in that village, and it all became so terribly irritating! Yeah, I felt I had to do something about it. I still needed to get to London, that’s where we – my colleague and I – had agreed to meet, so we could return to our own times. But going there alone is dangerous, especially for me...

Please, don’t get me wrong, my dear-cool-wonderful reader, I am aware that for our actor, everything that happened was a profound, intimate tragedy. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that Richard wasn’t merely sharing his story. No, each time he was waiting for me to validate his suffering. I think feeling sorry for someone is sometimes a necessary, but often a bad feeling, as it places you above the one you pity. In my urge to avoid such inequality, I kinda unconsciously began to argue with this melancholy. So one evening we were sitting outside the house, roasting meat over a fire. Richard was stirring ashes with a stick, drawing something in them, and, without looking at me, he began to imagine the scene with a half-asleep look:

“Alright, let’s go over it again…. England, the year one thousand, six hundred and fifty. Your ship lost its way through the currents of time and washed you up in our humble village. I think that could be the exposition. A bit gloomy so far, but I think it has some potential! So, what about Act Two?”

“Act Two… In the second act, I simply watched how a clever man buried himself alive in God-forsaken Epping village, 20 miles from London!”

“...”

“20 miles from London, where there are surely plenty of underground theatres! That’s all I remember from the second act, and I don’t know the plot that comes next. So, maybe we should go to London and see how the plot develops from there? You know, we have horses…”

“Yeah, a man burying himself alive... Well put. But it’s all that’s left for man to do! I’ve done all that I could, all that circumstances allowed me. Look around! The stage has been taken from me, and every role but that role of a dead man has long been played out! It’s a dead end. All that remains is to wait for the end... Or perhaps not even to wait, but to end it all myself!..”

He uttered that final phrase with such a tragic and cutting edge. Finding nothing to say, I parodied his tragic tone a little and jokingly replied:

“To be, or not to be?!”

“Yes! That is the question! I don’t believe that anything can change in my life now. So there’s no reason to go on living at all!”

“Yes, no reason!”

“Or… could there still be a chance that something might change for me? Most likely not. All is lost, and it’s time to accept the end. Or… what do you think?”

“Honestly, if I were a betting man, I wouldn’t bet on a change for you. I mean, just look: you’ve been dealing with the same mess for… eight years now? I think if your life were truly unbearable, you wouldn’t be here to complain about it. What’s stopping you from enduring another eight years, and then another eight after that? Clearly, things aren’t quite as dire as you claim! Now, hand me that cider.”

I took a swig and realized I had offended him, which immediately filled me with shame. I was about to apologize, but my attention had been captured by the silence that had suddenly reigned around us (the one that’s with crickets and leaves). One thought/feeling crossed my mind that someday I will die, and these crickets around me will continue to chirp, and these leaves will continue to rustle. All this exists outside of me, and someday someone else will suddenly start listening to it and will have exactly the same feelings as I have now. Does this mean that my feelings, too, exist outside of me to some extent? Maybe they themselves are a manifestation of something greater than myself? And maybe Richard's melancholy broader than himself, too? Maybe it's an expression of not just his personality, but the contradictions of this era in England? But I was distracted from this silly stream of thoughts and, unexpectedly for myself, continued:

“And you know, at the end of the day, I’m into this moment too, that crashing realization of a dead-end I’m in… My modernity pushed me into expeditions to the worlds humanity had forgotten. I thought I’d find the answers here. But... No. Maybe you can find some wisdom in the past, but you won’t ever find the answers. So, I think about suicide too. Who doesn't? You can give those people, who don't think about it at first glance, a little shake and find them having the same thoughts! I myself feel truly alive either when I’m seriously considering suicide or when I seriously love someone. But if you want to love someone, you have to maintain discipline so that there is no place for sadness and doubt inside. And if you want to kill yourself, you need the same discipline to not leave a single drop of hope. But such discipline demands so much time, so much energy, such a readiness for risk! Wouldn’t it be better to spend that time and energy on life, not on death then? To take risks for life, since you’re not afraid of death anymore? It’s hard because circumstances often grant us no freedom, and we’re often left with nothing but to yield to them and let them reshape us. But then again, we can change our circumstances too! When life gives you no reason to do what you want, it’s only by doing it in spite of everything that you can truly assert who you are!”

During this monologue, it seemed to me that for a second some of my words touched his soul, but after finishing my speech on a life-affirming note, I saw no reaction from my interlocutor. He remained pensively silent. So, I took another sip of cider and tried to either fix everything or ruin it even more:

“Anyway, this is all my motivational bullshit. Never mind. The truth is that I’m a deeply cynical man right now. I just need a companion for London, Southwark to be precise. It’s dangerous, and I’ve never been there and don’t know my way around. And I just tried to motivate you to come with me. I wouldn't want you to risk your life for my sake, tho. So, please, don’t listen to me, think for yourself! But… it could be a chance for you! I’m not saying you have to risk it all and dive into some underground theater, maybe just go and look around first. Maybe you’ll find a different job there, one that suits you. Who knows… But you’re unlikely to solve your problem here. So, maybe we should go to London...”

Richard let out a heavy sigh and said without much enthusiasm:

“I’ll harness the horses at first light. That’s the first thing. The second: you drank too much today. Please, give me back my cider!”

III – V.

The next day, Richard dug out for me some clothes from the chest of his late brother, who, as he said, had died because of the bubonic plague six years ago. They were dark brown breeches and red stockings, as well as a white shirt with a very large collar, over which I wore a long, dark brown caftan. These clothes looked very good on me, and the long, baggy sleeves of the shirt combined with the short sleeves of the caftan created a stunning effect!

“Also, keep in mind that Londoners don't usually like strangers,” Richard warned me. “They don't even like the Irish and Scots there, even though we were subjects of the same King!”

“Okay.”

“And please, no more fairy tales about time travel. Remind me, who are you and where are you from?”

“I am a Frenchman named Ahhh-toor Fleunois, monsieur! A Protestant refugee who came to England to start a new life. And you are my English guide. Yes?”

When the sun rose, we rushed to London. Along the way, we saw fantastic landscapes, and even our village looked magical from a distance. Fresh air was blowing in my face, not yet polluted by factories and cars. Although as we approached London, my nose began to feel some smoke, rotten garbage and stinky leftovers. Unfortunately, these smells blend naturally with the smell from my mouth, just like a synthesizer blends with a violin in the track you just heard. Yes, I forgot to bring my toothpaste with me on my trip. And yes, it might seem like no big deal, since it's normal to walk around with that smell here. But still, with Lacalut, you can always be sure of the freshness of your breath. Its unique formula refreshes the oral cavity for a long time and protects against unpleasant odors, even on the longest trips!

For some reason, we rode in silence to London, and sometimes I was even distracted from driving the horse by being lost in my thoughts. Anyway...

At first, a small windmill appeared on the horizon, standing alone by our path. After the mill came large plots of land with houses, and then the houses began to appear more frequently, eventually turning into Aldersgate Street of London, which led to the “Сity” gates. The houses were made of stone and stood crammed together, much like in Amsterdam. And already here, there was plenty of smoke; it was becoming a bit hard to breathe, and I started to cough.

“I'm about to suffocate! What's wrong with the air here?”

“Just get used to it! You haven't been here in the winter. In winter, the air gets heavy, and all this smoke doesn't fly up, but settles here, spreading throughout the city. Then it's impossible to breathe here at all.”

“But what is that smoke anyway? Where does it come from?”

“They're burning coal here, you know? And it gives off poisonous and dirty fumes. Yeah, it's a pity that the greed of a small number of people is damaging the health of the whole London!”

We rode through the outskirts of London towards the ward of Aldersgate. Through this gate, we were about to enter the central, historic part known as the City of London, which was surrounded by a wall originally built by the Roman army in the 3rd century. Honestly, Richard and I would have preferred to avoid this area, since it was swarming with Cromwell’s officers. And the very gate we were riding through also served as a prison fortress. But we had no other choice… The problem was that London is split in two by the River Thames, and our destination lay on the opposite bank. We needed a bridge to cross it. And we could only get to the bridge through the City, so we had to choose this way. Surprisingly, no one approached us at all, and there was a feeling that even ordinary citizens didn't pay attention to us. That's what we thought... As soon as we entered the fortress, it began to seem to me as if we were being chased by one guy. And I wasn't mistaken! He followed us on his horse from one street to another, and I saw him behind us all the time. I’d tell my fellow traveler about this, but I was afraid it would have given us away even faster. Richard, seeing my concern, thought that I was afraid of the officers and began to tell me that it wasn't just them I should be wary of. Despite the large number of officers, many people, most often women and children, can simply be abducted by traffickers and sold into slavery for various jobs in the colonies of America. "Those who steal people on the streets are usually called Spirits. Their victims will have to work overseas for several years to regain their freedom". Some poor people, finding themselves in debt, sold themselves into slavery without any Spirits... Although even if they didn't dare to sell themselves into America, in England itself they were often driven, under threat of death or imprisonment, into manufactories where they worked for 14-18 hours a day for a pittance!..

As for London itself and its streets, I have to say that the architecture didn’t impress me at all; my eyes found nothing extraordinary. Furthermore, every street was saturated with filth and horse manure, accompanied by the corresponding smell (on top of the smoke). The facades lacked cohesion because the buildings were so varied and intermixed. A building that tries to look like a palace stands right next to a hovel... It reminded me of 21st-century Moscow, where everything is also a chaotic mix of medieval churches next to Soviet-era brutal buildings, which stand next to ugly business centers from the 2000s, all against a backdrop of skyscrapers. Another annoyance was that every corner here was cluttered with piles of planks, or heaps of coal, or stacks of stones, alongside carts and beer barrels. All of this not only spoiled the impression but also seriously got in our way. The streets were so narrow that neighbors could shake hands from their windows. And because of this, our horses couldn’t pass through everywhere, forcing us to constantly take long detours to find wider streets. We barely managed to reach Cheapside, which was reasonably broad, by the way. You could say it was London’s main street, as it was where all the trading happened. From Cheapside, we turned onto Fish Street Hill, which led us directly onto the bridge, which we could have easily and quickly reached, if it weren't for our pursuer...

But first, let's continue my monologue about London. Actually, neither the city itself nor its architecture impressed me much. However, I was deeply struck by London’s bustling activity and the vast concentration of every kind of craft! Such a feeling came over me, one I hadn’t felt in the village and countryside, and it seemed new and familiar at the same time. We rode through the streets and encountered all sorts of people. I looked into the windows of various buildings and watched interesting things going on inside: you see a blacksmith at his forge here, there a priest laments the decay of morals and reads sermons, and craftsmen working nearby. You pass a manufactory and see women sewing in one room, linen and silk produced in another, and dyeing taking place in the next. It’s like the whole economy doesn’t happen behind your back; it unfolds before your eyes, and you can see for yourself what people are doing and how they are doing it. I felt some kind of alienation from reality, as if I were stepping back to view it on a broader scale, in its entirety. Internally, it's like I'm alienating myself from the immediate reality in front of me to look at it on a broader scale, in its entirety. And it felt like I was looking at a Brueghel painting.

It’s hard for me to say what Richard felt. From the look my guide wore on his face, I could tell that he disliked everything around him because he couldn't find a place here. But in general, he answered my questions, talked a lot about the city and various buildings, seasoning it with cynical jokes. He could suddenly fall silent because of his flashbacks, just as suddenly, he could start telling stories:

“Look, look, do you see that woman?”

“Yes, what’s wrong with her?”

“Never mind. Do you see that building? About two years ago, there was a tavern here; it was in that very place that we heard the story about the boatman from Shedwell!”

“The one who sold his son to America?”

“Yes, that one! And not only his son... He also kidnapped a boy and sold him to the captain as well!”

“Is that even legal here?”

“What? Selling your children? Or kidnapping people? Everything is legal if you know who to pay and if it brings you money. Everything is legal, except the theater. The theater is immoral!”

For the last couple of days back in the village, we hardly had anything to talk about together, but here, there is so much happening around us, and topics keep popping up on their own. Even if they are just small things, it’s interesting to talk about them. Because of that, he really has started to seem a little bit more lively since we got to London.

Before leaving Fish Street Hill, Richard turned around for some reason. His face suddenly went blank, and he let out a heavy sigh when he saw our pursuer heading straight for us, looking Richard straight in the eye. The stranger looked very neat and well-dressed, and I could smell his perfume from several feet away. However, there was a fastidious grimace on his face. He was smiling, while his eyebrows and eyes were serious. It was a very unnatural smile. I could say that such facial expressions looked like he was in physical pain. Seeing that this man was approaching Richard, I led my horse back with a few steps and watched from the sidelines.

"Is that you, Richard Wayne?"

"Is this me?"

"Long time no see! It was a bit hard to recognize you in such rags."

"I could say the same about you, Jacob! What's that tasteless suit? You're going downhill."

"Downhill, indeed! I could have gone uphill and made my fortune if I'd thrown in with the famous honey venture of yours. I could have supplied all of England with honey and become Rich!"

“And not just England, but also France, Holland, Germany, Spain.”

“Mhm, it must be a lot: juggling the honey trade and working as a Latin teacher for peanuts at the same time.”

“Yeah… Between honey and Latin, a man must learn to change his tune as quickly as yesterday’s royal subjects, who now serve Cromwell.”

“Have your fun laughing at me, Richard, for as long as you want. But if you’d taken my path, you could have avoided this shameful poverty you’re in right now. Anyway, why did I approach you just now?.. Ah, yes! I wanted to help you! Marchmont started a republican newspaper this summer. It’s called “Mercurius Politicus”. Heard of it? No, of course you haven’t. It’s a very respectable paper, very useful for our Commonwealth. We’re in need of pressmen and typesetters right now. The pay is good. And I reckon, in time, you’d have every chance to climb even higher.”

"Hmm.. Given my shameful poverty, I might even consider such an offer."

“If you need to take some time, I’m not against it. Will two days be enough?”

“Two days and two bottles of cider will be enough.”

“Who’s that with you, by the way? your barmate?”

“This is my French friend Arthur Fle… Flu.. Fla…”

They both started walking towards me. Jacob asked me something in French. Fearing that he knew this language well and that this might compromise me, I replied with German-sounding gibberish.

“What kind of French friend is that, Richard? He’s clearly Dutch! Oh, Richard… I’ll tell you something, don’t get me wrong: you have a serious problems with the drink. If you don't pull yourself together, you'll go down the same road as your drunkard brother! You'll end up the same way! And there will be no one left to salvage the family honor, and no one left to spin tales about death from the bubonic plague. Am I right?”

“Exactly so!”

“I’ll expect you today and tomorrow. Do you know where to find me?”

“Yes, I do.”

Jacob gave a curt nod, made a parting gesture to both of us, and vanished. Richard looked at me and said:

“Just in case… If you don't know where to find him, you’re supposed to look either in a brothel or in a Protestant church.”

We continued on our way and came to a large and wide bridge. From it, I could observe a magnificent picture of how hundreds, if not thousands, of ships moored along the coast across the entire visible width of the Thames.

"You know, after the theaters were closed, I tried for so long to find a toehold in this city. I know this newspaper... Maybe it's a silly thought, but it's as if I now have a chance. But..."

"You see! Yesterday you were talking about suicide, and today you've got your chance! You just had to start, and luck was already on your side! Sometimes life changes very simply. Don't worry about your nasty friend, I think you just have to put up with him"

"What? No, you don't get it! The problem isn't with just nasty friends! The thing is that I'll be serving the ideology that killed me! And that's a shame! That's a shame for me! It goes against my principles! But, on the other hand, what's the use of my principles if no one takes me or my principles seriously anymore? Who do they exist for? They'll only be taken seriously if I break them. Can you... Do you see the paradox? What is a disgrace to me is a source of pride for society, and vice versa. What is useful, profitable to me, useless to society, and vice versa! In these times, for some reason, usefulness is divided into internal and external. And only the devil knows which one to choose. Or maybe you don't have to choose, but just do what you can't help doing... Anyway, let's move on."

VI.

When we got to Southwark, we came into the first tavern we saw. Came out. Came into the second tavern we came across. Came out. Came into the first one. There were several tables inside, each with its own company gathered around. There weren't enough chairs for everyone, and most of the guests had to stand up while drinking. The smell of rotten wood and heavy alcohol filled the air. Ah, the smell of childhood!

“Wonder, which one of them is the owner of this place. There are so many people here, it's hard to tell...”

“To be honest, it was more pleasant to breathe street smoke.”

“Look for the least drunk person in this crowd. That's supposed to be the owner, from whom we can order a couple of mugs.”

Suddenly, a young guy appeared behind us:

“How can I help, gentlemen? We have strong ale, French wine, country cider, and...”

"No, no! We're so tired of this country cider! Pour us some ale! Two mugs!"

"Ale, two mugs.... I'll be right back!"

"Wait! Can we pay now instead of waiting?"

But this guy managed to hide in the dark passage leading down. He returned with a clay pot and two wooden mugs. Richard repeated the question with a slightly more malicious tone:

“Can we pay now instead of waiting?”

“Of course, pay up! Two mugs will cost you 4 bucks. Will you need a receipt printed?”

“Receipt printed? Bucks? We’re in the 17th century, in London! Watch your language, please!”

“Oh, my fault, excuse me! Happens sometimes. Two mugs will cost you one copper penny.”

From the depths of his doublet, Richard took out his Mastercard. He confidently attached it to a terminal, which was tied with ropes to a wooden pole.

“Done”, he said, grubbing the mugs. “Cashback is only 1%! It is a THEFT!”

We found a table that was a bit free. Several small traders, a middle-aged sailor, and some unknown drunkard (who, as it later turned out, was the owner) had gathered around it. Richard, using his acting talent, very skillfully, deftly, stylishly, and fashionably told them our legend, but no one wanted to listen. Everyone was waiting for the show.

Some actors came to a corner free of tables. It was a play about Pyramus and Thisbe that began. The plot was a comedic parody of Romeo and Juliet, which the artisans were supposed to perform clumsily, and that’s all created a comical effect. Unfortunately, as a 21st-century person, I could say that neither Aristophanes' comedies nor Shakespeare's comedies make me laugh. But the whole tavern was laughing, and Richard was delighted. After it ended, he ran up to the actors and started talking to them, leaving me alone at the table with strangers. Trying not to mingle with them and at the same time not to mingle with actors, I got up from the table and just walked back and forth. These people were all joking about something. Richard sometimes showed his acting tricks and taught everyone how to do them, advised them on how best to play the scenes they had played. About an hour and a half had passed, and I had to leave.

"So, Richard, are you going to see Jacob tomorrow?"

Richard smiled in response, and his smile spoke for itself:

"I wasn't going anywhere anyway. And here I found a good job! And you? Are you leaving?"

"Yes, I have to go. It's getting dark."

Richard nodded silently and looked down thoughtfully.

"All right, Richard. It was nice meeting you. Thank you for the interesting stories, delicious meat, and for helping me get here!"

"Thank you, too, brother. Now, hurry up and leave. I think our reader is heavily tired of reading this shite, and I think you need the most abrupt and doubtful ending possible!"

Yes. I left the tavern for the fresh air, where my colleague Mike Marcum was already waiting for me.

“I did not hit her, I did not... Oh, hi Mark!”

“Mike.”

“Right! So, where are we traveling next?”

“I don't know, I'm tired. I suggest traveling to June 28th, 2009. Let's show up to the Stephen Hawking's party for time-travelers.”

"No, no. Some files released in our 2026 suggest there's a good reason nobody showed up to that one. Let's better skip it. Head straight to our 2026th! I have something to tell my contemporaries.”

"No idea what you're on about, but you're probably right.'”

I am very lucky to have a colleague who is well versed in time machine technology and likes to prepare it for launch without outside help. That's what he was doing while I sat silently in my chair in the cockpit of our machine, watching London in the distance. It's a good place to think, you know? And here's what I was thinking about... Richard said that his usefulness was divided into internal and external. But is he useless to society as an actor? And is internal usefulness so useless?

Doctors also have an internal usefulness - to cure people. But in order for them to be motivated to cure people, they must be paid for it. But here's the catch! It'll not always be profitable for a doctor to make people healthy, because once his patients are completely healthy, they will stop coming back to him, and he will earn less money. Turns out, the more honest the doctor is, the worse he is? And again, usefulness is divided!

Mike finished his preparations, sat down in the chair, and started the engine. We are about to embark on our long-suffering 21st century with its wars, madness, and people's indifference to one another, which sometimes reaches a truly narcotic insensitivity to life... Sometimes I even wonder, am I able to do something more for my century than just reflect the moral decay inside and outside? What if I consciously want to do something useful for the world? True usefulness implies that we strive to satisfy the needs of other people through our actions, but what are those needs? If we all give up our inner needs for the sake of being “useful” to “society,” in order to adapt to it, whose needs are we satisfying with our “usefulness”? And are we really so useful and needed by each other then?