​Whatever happens to him is irrelevant because he is so clever. His inactivity is because he is chained to the wall and everytime he tries to tip toe across the room he is yanked back by the chains and falls on his face. He is a mental lackey, and a total imposter of a man. His mystical movement through life was all to liquidate his affairs by killing the people who tortured him. 

​The tarantula of melancholic boredom takes hold of me as my spirit waits to be set afire and turned to ashes in the hot stones of the cremator. My body twitches in one last spasm as the bell rings and I enter the final fires. The faint bells sound off as if saying, "I wish to warn you." 

​To set on fire and to burn to ashes. To cremate by scorching a corpse. Once I had committed to the flames, I had no choice but to turn to dust. These flames would consume my human body in the horizontal position for superstitions reasons. My body, soon to be ashes will be spread out to re-toil the farmland and join the rusted dust of the corroded and decaying farm equipment. Yes, I will be reunited with once again with my farm equipment. Then in a matter of days I will be scattered into oblivion and returned to the earth. 

​I want to reveal to you an unearthly secret. My whole life I have been in self constraint. I live in harmony with a hatchet in hand. My life is but a daydream and like this I make my survival. The hatchet is like an extension of my arm.

​Above in the infernal regions a hawk was slayed to death by an energy unknown. 

​To be concerned, preoccupied and terrified with a flying mouse that has rabies gives free rein to one's imagination, causing hallucinations and mental lamentations.

​Every day for the last several years I took the same drive to work by leaving the suburbs for the city. The drive from the suburbs was less than spectacular; nothing but rolling farmland of the most dull monotonous earth tone colors with the odd farmhouse dotting the bleak landscape. The road was a simple two lane highway that had ancient telephone posts with drooping low slung wires that would start high atop the post and then swing down only to be snapped up by the next post. With every post passing it was like the ticking of a clock that represented how far one had come and how far one had yet to go.

For reasons unknown to myself I sit on the river bank and cry and moan continuously as I watch the voluminous river flow, knowing it will flow and exist long after I'm gone. 

​I sat in the dark in my bedroom and looked out into the night which meant staring into the wall of the building directly across the alley from me. My window was open and off in the distance I heard a car horn honk and someone scream. But the rest of the night was eerily still as if something in the air would break through to shatter this silence. 

​To interweave a scandalous story about a wanderer is a temporary state of mind. This invented story was about a man who became a prisoner in an imaginary mystical fortress. The story says that I saw this wanderer as an apparition through a nebulous mist. Then the rain started to fall in large drops as I observed him from a short distance with his back to me. I became panic struck and fell under his influence.