The means and the reasons I am creating this story are falling away from me.
Some I can control.
Most cannot be.
Like the bowstring being draw. Like the balloon being filled. I feel a large amount of energy building up to an explosive conclusion.
Something is, or somethings are, about to go very wrong.
* * *
"Why, before me, do you stand?
Venge have some called you,
but know your soul do I, as Darren.
Fleeting about, your eyes do search.
Curious of your surroundings, they peer.
Familiar is the place, but seeing it the first time you feel.
Recognise not my face?
Witnessed have you my shape?
Misplaced I am and misplaced I stand.
Should not the ferryman carry your soul,
across to which/where you must go?
Expecting death herself, were you?
Once before I told you.
But lost are those thoughts,
covering the wall you found at your back.
Amongst you she did walk.
Naive she was but born,
but taken, she would change.
Surprised are you at the calm?
Missing is the static,
of eternity, revenge, and wails.
Focused your thoughts have become,
but missing is the thought.
Ready are you for judgement?
Why, before me, do you stand?
Venge have some called you,
But know your soul do I, as Darren"
