How far have I traveled to witness the marvel of the crimson miasma. How many years have flown by on the neck of a goose too young to fulfill its maternal instincts. I feel as though the centrifuge which they call time has made a mockery of my virulent virility. How can I ever hope to accomplish and soar through the skies like the many sanguine fruits before me, is this even a real test, or just some fabrications deeply embedded in the mind of a child sitting in an orchestra ready to play the kazoo. Too many thoughts, not enough thinking. Even I find myself adrift when I'm consigned to oblivion, and with no hope of haven on the horizon, I must resign my position as elder of the one-time.

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