The Universe Has a Voicemail

The Universe Has a Voicemail

The Universe Has a Voicemail
(and Clive keeps forgetting the PIN)

Clive lived in a quaint town where the clouds
resembled motivational posters,
and the pigeons occasionally cooed in Morse code.
He was certain the Universe was trying to reach him.

He left his windows open,
just in case a cosmic whisper flew in.
He burned sage, waved crystals at the moon,
even apologized to his ficus for not listening more.

Still, no golden yachts.
No manifesting millions.
Not even a free coffee.

Until one Thursday …. a Thursday with unusually sparkly air …
he found a scroll wedged in his toaster.
It read:

“We heard you.
But please, for the love of stars,
be specific.”

Clive blinked. The toaster buzzed.
He pondered the metaphysical implications
of jam.

So he wrote a letter.
Not to Santa, not to Oprah —
but to the All-Knowing Cosmic Concierge.

“Dear Universe,
I would like:

- A joyful job that lets me wear slippers.
- Enough money to never say ‘budget-friendly’ again.
- A dog that understands sarcasm.
- Also, WiFi that works during storms.”

He mailed it.
(To a cloud. With a kiss.)

A week later, Clive was employed …
remote poetry editor for marmalade labels.
He wore fuzzy slippers. The dog arrived by stork.
Sarcastic. Loyal. Named “Rebate.”

And every stormy evening,
his WiFi flickered,
but held strong …
like the faith of a man
who finally asked.

The universe has a mailbox…

From taskbots to super assistants

You have to ask

Thank you for reading and sharing!

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