There was a cat – it was fat, SO fat. I looked at it and it was eating a rat and the rat was fat and the fat rat was eating a fat worm and the fat worm was eating a fat cherry and on the fat cherry was a fat pig. It was eating a handful of ants – fat ants – and the fat ants were eating a jack jumper and a fat wasp and the fat wasp was eating a fat bee and the fat bee was eating a fat bug and the fat bug was eating a fat
Here, the story mysteriously ends, leaving the reader disconcerted and lost, as if dropped off on a desert highway without a compass or water. We are driven mad by the thirst for more information. This the human condition. We know the bug was fat, and he was being eaten by a bee, but who or what was the bug eating? Was he eating anything at all? Indeed, was he perhaps drinking lemonade?
We shall go to our graves without this knowledge. This is the power of the writer.