It doesn't matter if I live... or die...
Why?
I... fall into the maelstrom,
thunder cracking on my back
down to earth I (may) fall, but
the (may) fly, flies itself to sleep,
making my time with him a calamity.

Of course, time dissuades me,
from ever being what I want to be.
The (may) fly isn't a (may) bee,
time forces him into many mannerisms,
a ponderer, a wanderer, an organiser -
of the Anti-Anteater Association.
But at least he tries...
Unlike me.

I used to be a positive soul,
waiting out time for miracles,
but the materials required?
Well they were out of Stock,
Aitken and Waterman songs.
I should be so lucky...

Always popular, but never brilliant.

I specifically asked for pot...ash,
so I could grow some Amaryllis -
I got some dead stoners ground up bones.
Incinerated?, insinuated more like.

It's typical, mysunderstandyng.
I've been disqualified from the ratrace.

Snow bites my top lip, as I fall ever deeper,
time may start to pass backwards soon...
The thrill of the hunt - my piercing spear,
too elaborate to fly straight, it hits...
me in the face, time continuum.

No wonder the Woolly Mammoths died,
they hadn't bargained on my spear - useless!

I... want... to... spend time with the enemy,
working out their lies and deceipt.
To see why they have all the luck.

If I open this door, will I live?
Or will I die?  If I don't open it...
Well, what of it?

Stalemate - a life of content.

I can do that, yes.

But I open the door anyhow...
to find, another door.

I hear field guns, is it 1812?
Have I travelled backwards in time?

I feel younger, but I look old.
Fitter and lithe, but with a stick...
I poke myself.

Then I see the (may) fly, he's awoken,
as bashful as ever - buzzing around my head,
dogfighting like Manfred versus Albert.

He settles on my right earlobe.

"Maybe I'll (may)be your life... away?"
He says.

In the confines of this...
What is this place?

I hear Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture
...the door opens.

Welcome to Paranoia, please enter.

Geck0 - 1 February 2006.