Is this world ending because you have consumed all tales, or are you here consuming tales because the world is ending? Have all stories got lost forever? Did all our fables become the same?
Convinced that the world is going to end soon, a paranoid and drunk writer begins to tell his cat tales.
Tall tales, true tales.
Fables of compassion and greed, destruction and creation, loss and search.
The stories come tumbling out of his mouth - historical, mythological, political, allegorical, modern versions of Sindbad, Ali Baba and Aladdin . . .
Like the Scheherazade of yore, eager to save her life and that of a thousand other women, is the writer able to save his and others' world from its self-made disasters?
Do all tales really end here? or do they only begin?
The answers are, perhaps, Two Thousand and Twelve.
