Reincarnation.

This is what I intend to come back as, if reincarnation is extratemporal.

Little Big Day Out!

When my editor came to me in my cell, and asked me to write a travel piece, I said "You're not Timothy! I'm Timothy! Where are my steamed hands?!"

After a healthy dose of anti-psychotic medication, he asked me again and I said "Where do I start?"

He said I could go anywhere in the British ISles and talk about whatever I liked. With such an open invitation, I thought about what sort of place I would call a british paradise...

And then it hit me! In a book I'd read as a child, it talked of a magical land where strange creatures roamed the lush, green fields, and where men in huge suits took up the bolts of lightning from the hands of dead gods to make power for we mere mortals.

When I suggested this place, my editor told me it was a fantastic idea, and signed a week release form. I hurried home, trying to resist the temptation to molest birch trees along the way, and packed my bag with everything I'd need for my pilgrimage:
- Toothbrush
- Medicated toothpaste
- Fashionable undergarments
- Bell bottom jeans
- Sequined waist coat
- Afro pick
- Sun cream (Factor 20)
- Edible thong (For the train ride)

I hopped aboard the train, making sure my mittens were on tight, so I wouldn't start anymore fires.

The sign pinned to my coat said this:

"Please look after this bear. He bites small children and animals"

The guard, while making sure not to get his hands too close to my mouth, took my ticket, punched it, and left me alone in the first class car (Though I later found out I had no business being there.).

Aftr 5 changes, 6 muggings and a few cups of cold tea, I read the sign of the incoming station:

SELLAFIELD

I had arrived!

* * * * *

As I was wheeled from the station in my Lecter-cart, I saw all the wonderful sights that Sellafield had waiting for me. Flying cars! External combustion engines! Cream cakes! The beach! Unicorns fornicating with busty Goblins!

I later awoke in my hotel room with a hypodermic needle coming out of my neck, and a not e from the hotel management saying that I was speaking in tongues about flights of fancy and other such rot. They didn't have a tranquiliser, but gave me a shot of blueberry jam to the cartaroid artery, which had the same effect.

A few minutes of vomiting later, I left the basement penthouse I had been booked by my editor and went in search of adventure!

...there wasn't any in stock at the local supermarket! What a bust!

I walked along the beach instead.

The long, slightly oozing sand road became my friend over the 3 days I spent in Sellafield. It showed me the natural beauty of the indiginous wildlife, including a new species of crab that knows the entire score of "The Marriage of Figero", but nothing lse. After the final number, the creatures spawn a sack of eggs, numbering in the hundreds, and die on the spot. Those lucky enough to be in the chorus, survive to learn how to breathe and eat.

The feeling of sand between my feet was wonderful. The town should be praised for it's clean beach! It's natural properties are astounding! Even now, I never bump my feet into anything in the pitch blackness.

I was also lucky enough to be in town long enough for the summer carnival! Which began with the running of the sheep, due to most of the bulls being incredibly huge and agressive.

I, along with several other young men, were chosen to be in the event itself. We were herded into a large pen by a halfcaste man, who I later came to know as Shep. As we waited, the sheep was brought into the opposite pen. It had a garland of flowers, weaved by the women's institute, around each of it's heads. Each head was eating another's garland.

The time was nigh! We awaited the starter's pistol. Unfortunately, the local area authority wouldn't allow any sort of firearm to be fired, for fear of something they called an "84 cockup". So the starting pistol was replaced with a large gentleman having his genitals slammed into a vice.

The agonising scream came and we were off! The sheep was in hot pursuit! One man leapt into a rubbish bin for fear of being savaged by the creature, another threw himself into the Windy Scales, the local pub, and upon the mercy of the landlady. He was never recovered.

Yet another tried to climb up and over the wall surrounding the local nuclear power facility, but the wall consumed him before he even reached halfway up.

It was myself and another man left. My compatriot tried to bargain with me as we downed a gallon of beach sand, asking if I'd distract the creature while he ran on ahead. I told him I wanted a fair race, so kicked him in the cobblers and ran for home.

By winning, I was allowed my pick of the women in the town, those being the laws of the land.
I picked out my sweetheart and we spent the rest of the weekend in the throes of romance and the ocean (My hired dingy struck a roack and we had to swin back to shore).

When I arrived back at my inner London townhouse, my doctor told me that the asylum didn't allow pets. I told him she was a citizen of the realm and my worthy foe in battle, come concubine.

She bleated in agreement.

My Top Ten Gang Names.

10 - The Sons of Dr. Brain.

9 - Weekday Warriors.

8 - V for Vaginas.

7 - The Tribal Cheeks.

6 - Menstralcycle Maulers.

5 - Slash and Drop.

4 - The Chocolate Hostages.

3 - Granny Grabbers.

2 - The 65th Bvd Pussylickers.

1 - Hell's Angles.

A Psychological Test.

What am I?

Smilers.

There was no need to be offensive.

You just wanted attention.

You got it, and it made my blood boil.

* * * * * *

For a long time now, I've hated organised religion.

My father beat (Not literally) this into me by the way he used to scream obscenities at the Jehovah's Witnesses. Sometimes it was fun, but other times I just used to run away, try to disassociate myself from him.

I used to hate doing anything with him. Everything was littered with a racist or xenophobic pretence and subtext. Even over dinner he used to complain about migrant workers and the church. He used to say the words "The Papal State" more than "I love you".

I never used to put any stock into what he said, until I saw what he was talking about as a clear picture, not as a string of randomly offensive phrases.

We were at the funeral of a distant relative, someone's uncle or brother. And brother. I wasn't paying attention as my father grimaced through the entire ceremony. I looked over to the group a few plots away.

They were smiling.

They were burying a person, and they were smiling. I couldn't wrap my head around it.

Now, I know why. That's they way they are.

It's still a freakish prospect to me. Maybe that's why I became a writer, a journalist. To ask questions about things I never understood.

So why am I still confused about myself?

I smile now too, like they did. Just to get through the pain and confusion.

It's the sweetest torture to know you don't care, or at least have no desire to listen to someone else's problems.

The smile is cold, and full of regret.

150.

I thought I'd take a little time to just talk.

To my 1-3 readers, thank you. I started this as a means to an end, a place to write my thoughts and insane ideas down for future reference, or to entertain someone who came across it accidentally.

To my best friend, my other half. You're my consistant reader, always checking up on this place. Like so many other areas of my life, you make this place worthwhile. I've always said if just one person reads and likes my work, I'm satisfied, I'm happy. That just adds to you making me the happiest and luckiest Hector in the world (no matter how long you take to do things or get distracted for).

To anyone else who finds this place. Thanks for looking in. It doesn't take a lot for me to do this, in all honesty, but it takes a lot for me to say I'm ever proud of my works. Most of these are just badly cobbled together pieces of prose and poetry, so... Yeah. Hopefully you'll find something here that'll keep you coming back.

And let me know if you want to see anything more of a certain subject.

As for me? I'm gonna keep working at my dream. I want to write stories, but I'm no novellist, nor a poet truly. I'm a guy who comes up with nutty ideas and plasters dialogue in between reels of description.

I'm gonna have that future I dream of, one day. With the people and places within being real.

It's a long road ahead, but I've got strong legs.

T.P.

White Knuckles, Black Clouds, Red Head.

I woke up to my sides aching for no reason.
Just stiff, and tight.
A light throb.
I try to stretch it out, but end up passing gas and making it worse with a tightening crunch.

I sit and wait for my schedule to begin. 4 hours of purgatorial time-wasting.
No motivation to work.

I get to my lecture.
All goes well until my pitch.
For some reason, I'm nervous.
Maybe it's the eyes focused upon my, from all angles.
Maybe it's the tongue in my mouth being cracked and torn.
Or, perhaps it's my throat feeling like a black pepper and steak snadwich, tightly packed and itchy.

I leave feeling frustrated.
"A lack of clarity".
I want to hit someone.
I wish someone would try something.
I want to explode.

My legs ache.
Why I stand in a twisted act of charity, I have no idea.
I want to pass out.
I'm not even tired.

We are thrown off of the train.
Leaves on the track?
Either way, there are delays.
Sorry for the delay to your service.
What about YOUR service?

I refuse to explode.
I help the confused.
I have a conversation.
I can never let loose.

It seems like forever, but we're off again.
What seems like an hour is really 10 minutes.
I'm tired of it.

I get back to my car.
I sit, breathe and vent my anger.
I turn up the radio.
War of the worlds inside of a microcosm.
A bosom.

The sky is gray.
The rain is soft.
The mist is comforting.
Why does bad weather bring out the best in me?
The anger all but passes with the generations of reptiles in my automatic lover.
Left in the smoke and mist.

I get to my sanctum.
The childish mementos.
The familiar settings.
I long for one single thing.
I long for a comfort from afar.
I want her to be here, and to hear my roar in the quietest tones.
But she isn't.

Last I heard, she was running for earthy apples, or a singular one.
I can't blame her for not being here.
I'm the one who walks through life doing nothing about the routine and fucking ritual.
I just...

I want to be in a new situation.

An omen?
I had a dream.
I was suspended and afraid of falling.
I was crying on brittle wooden pegs.
I was crying for help.
I like to think the mystery saviour was you.

I know it was you.
It had to have been.

Dreams are special to me.
I don't have them often.
When I do remember them...

They're usually of you.

So I'll be here, for you and me.
The routine isn't bad if I get to spend even a minute with you.
So I'll keep walking and raging inside.
Because I have only a few more steps to go before my road opens up to the field of view.

I have my future ahead of me.
I'm just not sure of the way to go.
Maybe I'll stop and smell the roses.
Just for a while.

My rose.

Bo-ho.

Bo-ho was an ogre.

Bo-ho was a small ogre.

Bo-ho was the SMALLEST ogre in the ogrelands.

He was about the size of a tall human. Most ogres are double that size.

Bo-ho was laughed at all the time by the other ogres, as well as bullied and used as an Ogreball for the Ogreball games.

He hated being an ogre.

So, Bo-ho left the ogrelands and went into the human world.

He came to a town called Humblepie, where the men were proud and the women were pretty. 

Bo-ho took a job as a blacksmith.

All was fine until the Baron of Humblepie came into the town to collect the taxes from his people.

Bo-ho had never paid taxes before.

When the Baron demanded taxes from Bo-ho, Bo-ho slammed a handful of TACKS into the little man's hand.

Bo-ho was banished from Humblepie.

Bo-ho came to another town, called Whirlygig, where the men were smart and the women were smarter.

Bo-ho took a job as an inventions tester.

Bo-ho liked that job, lots of things went BOOM!

But one day, the Lord High Scientificer asked Bo-ho to help him build an airship.

Bo-ho couldn't read the plans.

Bo-ho left the town at midnight, full of shame.

Then Bo-ho came to a small town called Drizzlewood, where the men were meek and the women were shy.

They were scared of Bo-ho.

Bo-ho hid in a cave at the edge of town, sad at their reaction.

One night, he heard bells coming from the town...

A monstrous Hydra was attacking the people of the town!

Bo-ho jumped into the town and attacked the creature.

Their battle lasted for 7 days and 6 nights, until the creature fell by Bo-ho's hands!

Bo-ho was a hero.

Bo-ho was happy.

What do we learn from this story?

Learn to read, do your taxes... Boring.

Fuck up a Hydra? You're a real hero, a man's man.

At least to the meek.

EPILOGUE

Bo-Ho still couldn't read, but no-one laughed at him because he had a huge fucking sword.

A Special Education

Why is the special kid in that ridiculous helmet?

He's not special. He's spastic needs.

Be that as it may, why the helmet?

You know what's under there right?

His brace?

Right, the huge brace that keeps his swollen head from falling to the side and snapping his brittle neck.

So the Dalek helmet hides that?

2 more reasons.

Oh?

One - He's retarded like crazy. He loves Doctor Who.

A given. All retards like Doctor Who.

Two - He's fucking ugly to boot.

Too true.

Oh man... Here he comes.

*HEY YOU GUYS*

Oh... Hi, Richard...

Yeah... *Snort*

*WANNA PLAY BASEBALL?*

Uh...

Sure, buddy - Go get us 2 bats and wait for us behind the school.

*OKAY!*

...

I love being an asshole.

But you donate to charity right?

Of course, it evens itself out.

A Nature Lesson.

The greatest ironies in life all originated from nature.

From this fish here, presumably a Salmon, finally reaching the spawning pools after days of tireless swimming... Only to get swallowed whole by this crafty motherfucker of a bear.

Irony, in itself is all about timing.

Timing is how this bear was in the right place at the right time, and the Salmon was in the opposite.

So the next time you think something is ironic, or notice the irony in something.

Think of this Salmon.

HE'S FUCKING DEAD FOR THE SAKE OF NATURAL IRONY.

Straw.

Bernie?

...

Are you asleep?

...Yes.

Oh. Sorry...

No, Jack... Just... What do you want?

I was just thinking...

Harmful process, Jack.

...Why are we here?

Huh... Good question.

Don't you know?

Not really... I know just as much as you do, that being what were are and what we do.

Scarecrows... To...

Scare crows.

To scare crows. But, I mean, how do we know that?

I...

And why don't we stop?

That's simple. Move your arms.

I can't.

Exactly. Neither can I. We are our occupation. Forever.

Well, why don't we just stop scaring crows?

But... That's what we're built to do! We can't stop!

Who says?!

Well...

Exactly. I'm going to be a Cookfly.

Cookfly?

Yep. I'm going to sit outside of the farm kitchen and stop the flies from getting onto the farmer's wife's pies and things...

That's insane. If you can't move, how can you do that?

I'll find a way. I could hop over there in the rain.

Whouldn't that be a bit brash? Surely you'd need to work up to that position... That and you can't wave your arms to get rid of the flies.

Oh... That's true...

Though you have a point. We can't be this all of our lives... I personally don't know anything else.

Well, what do you know?

Theological philosophy and how to scare crows.

Hm... You could be a Scareatheist?

*Rim shot*

Odd Thoughts.

Anyone ever think Slimer was the ghost of a bulimic?

Think about it.

Canvas.

Every brushstroke I make is wrong.

Every twist and turn of my wrists, fingers, and the brush in my hand is imperfect and flawed.

I keep moving, spiralling into a deeper state of agony as I see a nightmare pour onto the blank slate before me.

I wear my expressions on my sleeve, seeming utterly enraptured by the next magnum opus that falls out of me and onto the equally plain canvas.

The truth is, I feel nothing for the work. 

All of the passion in my body, once hot and all-empowering, pumping the vitriol through my fragile form - Gone.

Simplistically and really gone.

I have no idea where it's hiding, or if it still even lives on within the darkest part of my metaphoric corners.

All I can do is work on finding it again.

Or cry to myself, admitting defeat.

Pride is a sin. So is envy.

Envy over those once in my sphere, like some metaphysical pantheon, now lifted from the unsafe chambers of adolescence. The old guard, changed, but never replaced for God knows what reason.

I see them, talking, wining and dining off of their thickly stacked wallets. I see them feel safe and comfortable with their tiny lives, knowing that they know, deep down, they're already dead. Dead to the dreams and wishes from their childhood.

It's entropy. Oroborous. A never ending cycle of despair and anger, without any trace of hope of happiness.

So why don't I sell myself off like a whore, as they have chosen to do?

I'm better than them. All of them.

I feel a different fire inside of me. A dark fire. Reversed, sucking in the joy and sorrow in my veins as fuel, instead of burning all around it indiscriminately. It's focused, never going out of control.

Pure, dark, rage.

A rage that I keep stored away in my soul, twisted and tortured, not just by my own admission.

Mammy and Daddy loved to know what was going on in my head. The docs and throbbers poking through my grey matter with sharp fingers and words. Always the same diagnosis, just in a new disguise.

Suddenly.

My muse comes to me, in flashes of golden greens. The shapely hip, the full bosom, the Venusian face. A beauty beyond all imagination.

She understands me. she knows my needs and fulfils them. The takes me into her and whispers:

"I know you. As you will come to know me."

I wrestle with my negativity for her. I fight the beasts within. All to see her look to me and open herself up, beckoning me in from the madness.

She does look to me, but she is transformed. A child of rage and envy. A beauty, to some far-gone patient of termination. A release. A guiding light.

A dark light. Crimson sickness pushed onto me by my own hands.

Imperfect hands.

I take my brush and make my stand, a defence, a shield to block the possibility.

Apathetic defence.

She peels it back and consumes it, as only sickness and hunger can. Chewing upon my person with grinning fangs, slowly becoming charper, hooking into me.

I'm addicted to her pain.

She makes me tick, tick, tick.

I hear the clock as I awake to a blank canvas once more.

The cycle begins again.

I weep.

I take up my brush.

Everything Brushstroke I make is wrong.

And it's the only comfort I know.

Anti-thesis.

I've never liked writing essays.

And I'd do anything I could to avoid them.

Not great for an Cambridge boy.

I was a student under Professor Homer. Good man, incredibly smart. Professor of Physics and Chemistry. So naturally, when he asked me to assist him in the lab on some extra-curricular research, I jumped at the chance... I liked the man, and it beat writing about atomic mass and fusion mechanics.

He was, for want of better terms, an Alchemist and a dreamer. He loved theorising new methods of testing the atom to it's fullest potential. I couldn't understand why no-one else wanted to work with him.

Maybe I was as mad as he was...

On the first day assisting him, I was drenched in toxic waste. It was a test of a new polymer he'd developed - "Homewrap", he jokingly called it, due to it being "Safe as houses". He was right. Nothing got in. It was fantastic. It could have revolutionised safety in hazardous areas, it was lightweight, incredibly durable, and could be customised easily for working conditions different to science - I said he could have even sold it as jumpsuits for the motoring industry. He laughed, and said it was a good idea, but I could tell there was something... off. I'd rattled him with what I'd said, my praise of his genius...

He let me take a sample of it home. A real show of trust. I could have taken it, and the notes he'd made me take to the nearest patent office and taken it for myself... Why didn't I? Respect. He trusted me, and I wasn't the type to do so.

Not back then.

Now? I can be a little... Dishonest. But I like to think I'm a good guy.

We worked together on really out there concepts, like an atomic kettle, like a pressure cooker for dark matter, and other such substances. We used it initially to make water, iron and carbon balls. 

I had enough notes on that to write my entire thesis. But... I still avoided doing so. Homer promised me credit for it, in place of wholesale documentation. That was good enough for me.

He introduced me to his colleagues, a real wild bunch. Doctor Lovell was a psychologist. Miss Amberin was a business guru. And Professor Maxim was an engineer. All really, incredibly smart. I felt like a sore thumb, but I absorbed so much information from them, it was insane. I loved listening to them argue about things.

Homer also introduced me to the ASM - Anti-Superhuman Movement. Some doctor gets the power to blast a beam from his little finger, destroying buildings and killing people worse off? That's not fair. They need to be regulated... 

The Prof wanted to create a power suppressant, a bracelet that stopped the flow of unnatural elements in the human body, stopping the explosive reaction within the body. It's all physics.

He just needed a test subject.

This is where I honestly started to be scared of the man. He was intense. He was obsessed by EVERY one of his projects... Even the finished ones.

One day, it changed. 

I came in, and found him suspended from a device. He was inside of the kettle, or at least a new attachment. He asked me to be the random element. He told me to push 3 of the god-knows how many buttons on the panel... There must have been close to 40 buttons...

I saw he was in the Homewrap, a jumpsuit of the stuff, with no sleeves.

I pushed number 9. Something viscous and black poured into the kettle, as it slowly began to move.

I pushed 23 - My age then. A huge amount of some sort of green dust began to circle him...

I sealed his fate with 16. He was showered in, what I later discovered was, moss. Common moss.

The kettle whirred like crazy. We was in agony, bleeding into the mix and glass.

When it finally stopped, we was... Alive. To say the least for that miracle.

He was green. Literally green, like the moss. and covered in sores that oozed black and green sludge.

He stepped out of the kettle and put the inhibitor bracelet on...

Nothing.

A complete failure for the bracelet.

But a success for him. He was a living spreader of the disease called Harmain - The one that ate through the New Forest - The sentient bacterium.

Yeah... I should have stuck to with the essays...

Now what? For me, I mean.

I got my degree, fine... But I made him into a monster.

So I became the opposite. The antithesis of the organic disease - A cure.

Chalk white and yellow.

The cure.

E' gas s'em

My boy... My beautiful boy.

Grandpa...

Don't be sad for me boy, I'm fine.

But...

No buts. You're a smart boy. I'm so very proud of you. Your mother and father would have been so too. I've been proud to take care of you for all of these years. So very proud. You were a little Hellraiser! Full of it! You remember the time you turned the dining room into a fort? Oh... How you cried when we made you put it back as it was...

I remember... I remember you building me another outside, out of the old wood and garden furniture... It was the middle of November!

Ah... But you still played in it...

Yes... And you caught the flu.

Flu, Schmu... It was worth it to see you smile.

...Gran-

You know... All I've been able to do here... Is think.

I know...

Remembering the good times, and the bad. It's amazing how much we do in our lives... And how much is done to us...

You mean...

Yes. I was one of the lucky ones. So many of our people were lost to the war... But...

Grandpa?

My boy... There is something... Whether I didn't remember, or chose not to, or... There is something you should know...

What?

In that place... we were a desperate people. When we weren't working, we were dreaming of freedom. I know that sounds too much of a generalisation, or just plain-

Shh... go on. I know.

You don't, that's the point... And I'm so happy you don't. All I can tell you is my part in the story.

Of course.

I was a rock mover. I moved rocks. Not much else to the job description... I moved them from one pile to another. They worked us to the bone, made us weak. Either you worked, or you died. Those that snapped, died anyway. Sick? Dead. These was no happy medium, only the darkest shade of shadow. We used to talk as we worked, just to keep each other sane. I was in there with...

Hm?

I don't remember his name... It was earthy... Had a real hock to it. used to have to spit every time I said his name... Well, the sweat did that too... Anyway, he and I used to dream of being on the other side of the fence. He was a scholar, he knew a lot of things. He'd been a student of some really strange men... Makes Genesis P.Orridge look like liberal.

Who's...

Never mind... He was a strange man, a man of the earth, but rejected it. He resented the work the guards made him do. He was always talking about what we'd do when we got out, like he knew it was coming... I used to stifle my laughter. He warned me "Miky!" That's what he used to call me. "Miky, you have to be ready! I'm going to get out of here!". I used to play him off and get him back to work... We weren't being made to talk... He was a strange one.

Did you meet after you got out?

No...

Why not? I thought a lot of survivors-

A lot of us? There weren't as many as they tell you. And we never wanted to meet to discuss the old days.  Anyway... If I couldn't remember, I never would have taken to the idea. 

Ah.

I'll skip ahead... We were there a while. That and... there isn't much all to say. It was monotony. Torture without the violence.

There was violence. I know that much.

A lot of it occurred behind closed doors. Not saying it all did... I've seen my fair share of men fall into the dirt...

I'm sorry.

Never apologise for something you weren't alive for.

Well, I'll be sorry for that...

Heh. My boy, never compromise yourself for others... It leads into dark areas. We did something in that man-made Hell. Something dark.

What?

We sold ourselves... Parts of ourselves...

For what?

Freedom.

How?

We compromised our beliefs. 

I don't-

We made a deal. In exchange for what we loved, we were given an out. A free pass from Hell.

Who did you deal with?

A terrible power.

The guards? Commanders?

...No...

Then-

You have to understand, I'm not a bad man. I'm... We were desperate. We needed an out. I was close to the break, we all were...

You're not making any sense.

No... But matters of devilry and pact never make sense.

Devilry?

We sold ourselves to the Tulpa.

Wha-

It was... Like a Golem. You remember that story?

My favourite... 

Yes... It did as we asked... But it was pure blackness and bloody earth. There was no servitude, just platitude and the sharp, biting fingers as he pointed to us... He told us we would have our wish... For a price. there always is. For anything. 

Jesus...

Don't... Ah, you're a big man. Talk as you like...

What did you give?

One of us gave his legs. He was an athlete, almost made it to the Olympics... The one the Fuhrer was at... Another gave her soul... One gave his heart and soul... My friend? He gave his mind, thinking he couldn't make him an idiot...

What did you-

the athlete had his legs blown away by the guns, in the smoke and chaos. Gone. Bloody stumps. But he lived... The deal was set.

The others?

The lady, Miriam... I think. She went to Paris... Fell in love, and became a dancer... But her eyes were dead... Even back then. I don't think that ever changed, even when she lived her dreams.

How do you know that?

She had the look... She was one of the "Special Projects"... She was just a child...

No... How do you know about Paris?

I have my ways... The other who promised his heart and soul... Well, he became a very rich man... But lost it to a younger woman... Murder, some said...

And your friend?

He was... He was admitted to an asylum as soon as we were rescued. Shellshock, survivours guilt, whatever the doctors could throw at him... Never saw him again...

...You haven't said what you gave.

...Your father was a strapping man...

No...

I never intended to fall in love... But it happened... I forgot when I held him in my arms... The Tulpa didn't...

Please, no...

The car... no-one knew how it came to fly off of the road... But I knew, like a flash of infamy. 

For... No.

It was a miracle you survived. An angel must have been watching you... And with you, I had my chance at redemption.

Is that all I was? Redemption? The last chance of a desperate man?!

We were all desperate... And I never compromised my ideals. Never again.

...I... I can't be here...

No... you're right. Go. Be happy... I deserve this... All of this.

...

I feel you... Mnmezzer.

*Growl*

I know... But he had a right to know...

*Laughter*

I know... Take me... I deserve it all...

Inspiration Station.

It seems a while ago that I went on an introspective rant about myself...

God, I can't even remember why I was so low.

Rest assured though, the train is picking up steam... A lot of it. 

Not to the level where I'm a fucking miracle worker, I'd never be that motivated. That's John Paul II territory... Not that he was incredibly active, but you get it right? About devotion?

7th of March. Today. I make this promise. I'm gonna get back on the saddle, attached to the horse of metaphor, and ride into the almost-daily sunset.

...I need to watch some more westerns.