Life imitates art imitates life

Ecks' fingers hovered over the keyboard; he hadn't written a word since she'd stormed out three nights ago.

As always, it had been a foolish argument over nothing, but still her eyes had glittered like they always did, morning sunlight reflected in ice. She'd wasted no time in hurling the usual clothes into the usual bag, and he was left hanging there in his dressing gown as the familiar sound of stillettos click-clacked to silence on the other side of a slammed door.

Ecks let his fingers drop. It was no use; he knew by now that it was pointless to try to write without her. He placed a piece of paper neatly on the desk in front of him, picked up a pen and started to compose a letter.

"Dear Muse," he began, "I'm sorry. Please come back."

A friend of Ecks and another friend of Ecks have both started blogs. Now, we all know how nice it is to receive comments, so why don't you pop over there and say hello?

Chapter 1

The following is Chapter 1 of The Servants Of Gods, Ecks Ridgehead's as yet unpublished first novel.

1. Civil War, Civil Guards

The spectre of the Spanish Civil War had passed La Locura by as it stalked the mainland, gaunt and hollow-masked, thrusting its dirty spear into the chests of so many young men and women. The three years of terrible bloodshed had certainly not gone unheeded, but happily for the residents of the tiny island they seemed to have been forgotten about in the bloody struggle for power. No calls to join either cause came, no troops marched into the Plaza Mayor, no aeroplanes whined overhead whistling their bombs or cackling their machine gun fire. The ships fat with weapons and ammunition bound for Franco’s Nationalist armies lumbered down from Germany and on round to southern Spain, ignoring La Locura as countless others had done before.

In return, most of the islanders ignored the war. There were some on the island that felt passionately about the conflict one way or another, but all were sensible enough not to wish to take up arms against their friends and kin, and for a community built centuries before by soldiers deserting to avoid conflict this was not altogether too surprising. The islanders decided pragmatically that the river of blood gushing into the sea from the mainland was swollen enough without being fed by a trickle from La Locura.

As it happened, most of the people who lived on La Locura were sympathetic to the Republican cause. This is not to say that they understood the politics of the Civil War and had chosen to side with the communists; to be honest, they had no particular left-wing ideologies at all, but were Republican by dint of being vaguely anti-Nationalist. Most would have laughed had it been suggested to them that they were supporting the communists. They didn’t believe in any of the communist ideals. Most of them went to church on a Sunday, and they would certainly have balked at any notion of land or property redistribution, unless, of course, it meant that they would get more. It was just that people on the island were aware of the fact that Franco’s Nationalists were in league with the despotic regimes of Mussolini and Hitler, about which they had heard vague yet terrible things, and that was quite enough to make their minds up for them.

Fidel, though, was staunchly Republican. He was the one that owned and operated a boat for Don Moscote, the island’s cocaine-smuggling entrepreneur, bringing goods and mail to the island from Portugal and Spain twice each week. Eager to make a contribution towards the Republican cause about which he was so passionate, he began to collect propaganda posters from the mainland and distribute them around the island, and by 1939 the slogans screamed down from every flat surface with their exclamation marks and unnecessary capital letters: "Peasants, the land is Yours!", "Workers! Fascism is Exploitation and Slavery!" and "The Claw of the Italian Invader grasps to Enslave us!" But by that time the war was all but over, and the Italian Invader was presumably already on the verge of grasping and Enslaving La Locura, whose residents, one must imagine, were now all set for Exploitation and Slavery.

In spite of the island’s overwhelming feeling of indifference towards it, the war did strike La Locura with one casualty, albeit indirectly. Fidel’s wife Consuela had a brother who had moved to Madrid as a young man, and some months into 1937 Fidel himself had the great misfortune of delivering to his wife a letter from her sister-in-law that told of her brother’s death at the hands of the Nationalist insurgents. His wife remained remarkably calm as she read the news, out loud, in front of him, but then she told him that she felt a little tired and that she would like to retire to bed to rest. She walked resignedly up the stairs without waiting for his reply, and Fidel was left with only the echo of her perfume for company. Despite hearing nothing from her he remained downstairs for several hours out of respect for her privacy, and he would have remained longer but for the ticking of the clock, which had become so loud that it was unbearable. When he could stand it no more he ventured up the stairs and into their bedroom, where he found her lying peacefully in bed with the letter clutched to her chest. His first glance told him that she was asleep, but after watching her for a few seconds he realised that this was not the case, and concluded through a mist of tears that she had simply lain down on the bed and died of sorrow. He pulled the letter from her embrace with tremulous fingers, trying desperately to ignore the dark blooms of ink blotted by her tears, and placed it back in the envelope, upon which he wrote “Return to Sender”. He sat down next to her on the bed and said to her as he stroked her hair: “So you would die for him rather than live for me.” He kissed her once on the forehead and once on the lips, then called for Padre Eusebio to arrange the funeral. Fidel never spoke of his wife again.

Contrary to Fidel’s protestations, in reality nothing much changed on the island after the war ground itself to an end in 1939 and the Nationalists took to power. The only perceptible difference was that, one by one, Fidel’s posters were torn down or pasted over, except for one that remained in Dionisio’s tavern which he kept solely to annoy Yolanda, his wife. It had originally borne the rousing slogan "Women, work more for the Men who Fight!" but he had obliterated the words "who Fight!", and whenever he wanted Yolanda to do something for him he would point to the poster and say "Believe me my darling, I would do it myself, but as you can see from this official poster it is the will of the government. Come now, you had better do it, or I will have to report you to the authorities." She always ignored him.

At the same time, far away in Madrid, General Franco began to contract the fever of paranoia endemic among revolutionary dictators, for those who gain power through revolution or insurgence are acutely aware that power thus gained could so easily be lost in a similar manner. So he set about installing the Guardia Civil, a national militia that kept its eyes fixed resolutely upon its own people, in Spain’s towns, cities and villages as a way of beating down rebellions and keeping the peace. As is so often the case, though, the peace that was gained through violence, fear and brutality was kept by violence, fear and brutality. The keepers of this uneasy peace, these officers of the Guardia Civil, were at best cantankerous and petty and at worst vicious and sadistic. They were officially part of the army and believed that they had all the privileges of military conquerors, and behaved as such. They always worked in pairs, for protection - which should give an indication of how well-loved they were. These two-man patrols were known as parejas.

-- o --

On the 23rd of April 1940, two wiry, angular young men arrived noiselessly in La Locura. Eduardo García and Iago Moisés stepped onto the quayside from Fidel’s boat wearing the dark green uniforms and grotesque leather hats of the Guardia Civil, and both bore the markings of Lieutenants. They brought with them a single suitcase and a sense of disquiet.

After disembarking they made straight for the decrepit police building, and on their arrival there they found Captain Godofredo Patrón leaning back in his chair, with his booted feet propped up on the desk and his hat full over his face, snoring like a drowning man. The immaculately attired Guards wrinkled their noses in disgust at the sight and smell of this slovenly individual, and in one movement Lieutenant García swept Captain Patrón’s dusty boots and silver hip flask off of the table and slammed a sturdy brown envelope down in their place. Captain Patrón woke with a start, his eyelids opening and closing like the wings of a dying moth.

"What’s going on? Who are you?" he spluttered, his eyes lolling wildly around, frantically trying to co-operate with each other.

"I am Lieutenant Eduardo García and this is Lieutenant Iago Moisés, of the Guardia Civil," said Lieutenant García, "We have come to relieve you of your duties. In that envelope you will find papers authorising the transfer of command from you to us. You won’t need to check them, I can assure you that they are all in order."

Captain Patrón’s bleary eyes widened as he blinked in the enormity of the situation. His brain was hammering out a painful rhythm against the inside of his skull.

"So...mmph...you, you’re in charge here now?"

"That is correct," sneered Lieutenant Moisés, his mosquito whine of a voice sidling lazily through the smoky atmosphere. "This is now a Guardia Civil post and you are not a Guardia Civil. It’s quite simple."

"What, you’re taking my job, just like that?" Captain Patrón’s sleep- and drink-fuddled brain was beginning to draw level with the conversation. "How can you do this?"

"You have been relieved of your duties," said Captain García. "You have twenty-four hours to remove your personal effects from this office. Although I doubt very much that the removal of two empty bottles of wine and a tin of cigars will require quite that much time."

And so it came about that Godofredo Patrón lost his job, and Lieutenants García and Moisés became La Locura’s inaugural Guardia Civil. They began their tenure by ordering the repainting of the outside of the police building to a sickly yellow colour, and by ordering a number of signs that proclaimed "Guardia Civil" in ugly black letters, along with an elaborate official crest. These were affixed to the main door and the outside walls.

When Captain Patrón left, they found that the interior of the police building was untidy, cramped and smelled strongly of smoke, which was the result of Captain Patrón’s cigars. He didn’t smoke them; instead he had had the habit of burning them in a small metal tray on his desk, as he firmly believed that the smoke would keep the mosquitos away. He had been indoctrinated into this habit when he was very young by his grandmother, a hunched old lizard who had burnt small ceramic bowls of tobacco on the window ledges of her house in order to drive away insects. The young Godofredo Patrón could see no reason to doubt the efficacy of such practice, despite the quiet disapproval of his mother, although at that tender and impressionable age he had been too young to appreciate that his grandmother was actually insane.

Lieutenant García thought that the lingering, acrid odour was not befitting of a Guardia Civil post, and so he and Lieutenant Moisés opened all the windows and left them open for a week to try to dissipate it. When this failed to have any effect they washed the walls with lemon juice and vinegar, and they burned fragrant woods and flowers in the office. But even in spite of all these efforts the smell refused to go, and because of all the open windows they suffered terribly from mosquito bites.

-- o --

The pareja did not delay in making their presence felt about La Locura. They patrolled the island from daybreak until dusk, and sometimes made random, unannounced house calls after dark. They leaned indolently against walls, staring at passers-by with hooded eyes and eavesdropping on their conversations. They strutted imperiously through the market like two malevolent peacocks, plucking whatever bread, fruit or sweets they desired from the stalls. They lurked at the sides of buildings, dirty green stains on the whitewash, appearing insidiously wherever people were chatting.

Early on in their time on the island they even paid an evening visit to the sprawling villa of Don Moscote, swaggering up to the gates and demanding to be let in. Don Moscote received them gladly. It is not known whether they were more receptive to bribery or to coercion, but they emerged blinking into the sunlight very late the next morning and never went anywhere near the estate again.

The rest of the islanders, however, were not fortunate enough to be able to divert the attentions of the two Guardias so easily. Their behaviour was carefully calculated to ensure that the locals knew that they were being watched, and their oil-black pistols, glistening like newly hatched snakes, were always prominently displayed on their hips. Lieutenant García seemed to be the more assertive of the two, and as he talked Lieutenant Moisés would rest his hand on the butt of his gun and nonchalantly cock and uncock the hammer with his thumb, making a dry, menacing click-click-click noise like the snapping of a bone that made the blood run like ice in the veins. The pareja took great care of these pistols, more even than they did of themselves. They dismantled and reassembled them first thing every morning, meticulously cleaning and oiling all the moving parts, removing the barrel and gazing down into it as though into the eyes of a newborn child. If for some reason they had been short of time, they would have cleaned their guns rather than washing themselves or shaving.

But they were never short of time, for how can one be short of time when one has no schedule, no appointments and no duties? Their sole purpose in La Locura was simply to be on the island, a palpable governmental presence designed to quell the possibility of Republican resistance. And so they remained, creeping, sneaking, bullying, and answering to no-one, a painful red boil just under the surface of the island.

-- o --

One Saturday evening in July the pareja called in at Dionisio’s tavern. The Casta family had owned the tavern in the Plaza Mayor since it had been built in 1591, one of the first permanent buildings on the island, and Dionisio Casta was the current incumbent after his father’s premature death. He was a tall man, in his forties, and a lifetime of lifting barrels of beer and crates of wine had given him broad shoulders and thick arms, although the passage of years had caused some of his chest to migrate southwards into something of a paunch. He had a head of thick black hair, which he always slicked back with grease, and his temples and exuberant black moustache were just beginning to show the first signs of grey. He jokingly attributed this to the various misdemeanours of his nine year old son, and would tell him so from time to time: "Abejundio! Come here, look at this! There in my moustache, another grey hair! I tell you, that was your fault, when you smashed those bottles of wine with your ball. How does that make you feel, eh?" And little Abejundio would go and look, and see the grey hair, and wonder whether it really was his fault. Then his father would laugh and pinch his cheek and tell him that one day he would be collecting grey hairs from his own son.

That Saturday the pareja made their way to the door of the tavern during the early part of the evening when the dying light was fading to blue, which contrasted starkly with the candlelight inside the tavern, flickering orange and gold through the thick, smoky windows. They waded through the dim outside, and a small green lizard skittered soundlessly across the wall as they marched over the flagstones. The dark wood of the door, smooth with age, was still warm to the touch from the day’s sun, and it sighed a greeting from its ageing hinges as Lieutenant García pushed it open. The muffled melody of laughter, chatter and clinking glasses became suddenly clearer, as though someone had lifted a heavy blanket from the room, and then just as quickly died away into silence as the newcomers were recognised.

The pareja strutted into the tavern. Lieutenant García cast his gaze haughtily around the room, to be greeted by a dozen cold, hard eyes. Dionisio looked up from his work. Begrudgingly he stopped cleaning the wine glasses and turned to face them. It was a warm evening, and rivulets of grease from his hair trickled slowly down his forehead as he forced what he hoped was a warm smile onto his stubbled jowls.

"Good evening Lieutenants. Can I help you? A drink, perhaps? On the house, of course."

Lieutenant García walked slowly into the tavern, motioning distractedly at the wall.

"Señor Casta, tell me," his words leaked out into the room like a film of oil onto water, "Is that a Communist poster I see on the wall over there?"

Lieutenant Moisés smirked, and his thumb twitched upon the hammer of his gun.

Click.

Dionisio’s gaze flicked over to the poster and back to the Lieutenant’s face. His smile became a little stiff around the edges.

"Oh, that’s just a joke, Lieutenant García. I only keep that there to annoy my wife."

"All the same, Señor Casta, it is Communist propaganda, is it not?"

Click.

"Well, until I defaced it, Lieutenant, yes, ah, I suppose it was. But as you can see, it doesn’t make much sense now."

Lieutenant Moisés sneered and rolled his eyes as Dionisio spoke.

"Hmm. Well you see, what doesn’t make much sense to me, Señor Casta, is why Communist propaganda would come to be in your possession in the first place, defaced or not."

Click.

"Can you tell me, Señor Casta?"

Dionisio wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, which he then wiped on his apron. His shirt, slightly damp with sweat, was sticking to his back and began to feel cold on his spine. He had heard about what happened on the mainland to political agitators. He had heard the stories of midnight raids and executions, the rumours of distorted bodies found the next morning and witnesses too petrified to identify them.

"It...please, it was just a childish joke, Lieutenant. We never really believed in it."

Click.

"’We’, Señor Casta, ‘we’? So you admit that it is not just you who appreciates this kind of literature? Am I to assume that there is a nest of vipers here on my island?"

"No, no, all I meant was that my customers could not help but see it, but señor, please, be reasonable."

Click.

Lieutenant García smeared his lips across his face and into a thin smile.

"Señor Casta, I think that perhaps it would be prudent for us to continue this discussion back at our headquarters. Shall we?"

He gestured to the door. Dionisio turned to the kitchen and called out his wife’s name, and she peered halfway around the door frame, her black hair hanging loose around her face from a long day of cleaning and cooking.

"Yolanda, I’ve...I’ve got to go with the Lieutenants here. They want to take me back to their office to ask me some questions." His eyes felt hot and moist. "Please don’t worry about me."

Her dark eyes flitted from his face to Lieutenant García’s. Her fingernails scratched the frame of the door as his words sank in. Dionisio turned back.

"Lieutenant García, may I be allowed to see my son before we go? He’s asleep upstairs."

"No, I don’t think so, there isn’t really time. It would be a shame to wake him, don’t you think? Besides, you’ll probably be back here before you know it."

Click.

It was at that point that he realised he would be dead before dawn.

Disembodied Voices

Last week's writing challenge was 300 words on "Disembodied Voices".

It was cold outside, bones cold, and the darkness drip-dripped down slow like honey. I lay still like a snake, not moving but one bit, and I don’t mind to tell I was mighty ‘fraid. Not a body wun’t be after god Maru sent the Pakeha to come and kill all us brethren. So I laid there all not moving for an hour or some, ‘til I heard the voice.

“Anyone there?”

Now I din’t say nothing, cos I din’t know if it was brethren, or tricksome god Maui trying to make me into a fool, or some Pakeha buggah still hiding round trying to get me to show myself so he could stick me like he sticked everyone else in Te Awamutu. I din’t see nothing neither cos the dark was too sticky-black.

“Hello? Anyone there?”

I just laid perfect still, not hardly breathing, cos I din’t want a death clap from one of them thundersticks that god Tawhiri gave the Pakeha for who knows why. But the worrysome voice came up again.

“It’s me, Rewi. Is any other buggah there?”

It was Rewi, my brethren! I forgot the shitty ruckus that’d gone between him and me all them years ago quick-smart, and warmness and glad filled up my belly.

“Rewi! It’s me, Paranihi!”

He could hear me smilesome as I said it, but we din’t move or try to find each other, though. I was happy, and I thinks Rewi was too, just to hear a familiar voice.

We talked like when we was nippers, and in the dark we was nowhere. There may’ve been woesome streams of blood feeding the Waipa river as we lay there, but that was for morning. We two voices was back on that night twenty years ago when we was first friends.

Next week the target is 250 words with the title "Punk".

Men aren't really from Mars

She said, what are you thinking about?

He paused.

He said, I was thinking about how we never get to spend as much time together as we used to, and that we should really put a little more effort into each other, because you certainly deserve better than I've been giving you, and I don't want you to think I just take you for granted.

He wasn't really, he was thinking about the football. But she didn't need to know that.

She smiled.

Survival of the...

Huddled at the foot of the escarpment, the mind of the first human ever to develop sapient thought was overflowing with questions. Where does the sun come from? Will I die? If I do, where will I go? Why do I feel hunger? What is wind? Why does it do that when I look at her?

Unfortunately, this inauspicious question was the last that he would ask. Not for any lack of desire for knowledge, however, but because the second human ever to develop sapient thought was crouched nearby, and reasoning that if he crept up behind him and smashed his skull with a rock he could have that half-eaten antelope that he was hoarding.

Jackson's Rock

Last week's writing challenge title was a 250 word piece called "Jackson's Rock."

The Advertising Standards Authority, Case #241-05

Complaint:

Objection to a radio advertising campaign in the Brightpool area. The advertisement claimed that “Jackson’s Rock is just so sweet it puts curls in your hair and a tingle in your feet”. Six complainants challenged the assertion that hair curled and feet tingled as a result of the consumption of this confectionery.

Adjudication:

Complaint Upheld

The Authority recommended that the advertisement not be shown in its current form.

Although Jackson-PharmaCom insisted that their confectionery did impart the properties advertised, they failed to submit evidence that proved their claims. Subsequent clinical tests of 100 individuals carried out by an independent body found that consumption of Jackson’s Rock did not cause the curling of hair that was originally straight, nor did it cause any kind of tingling sensation to be experienced in the feet (although one subject did experience podiatrical discomfort after he ate the rock, this was considered to be parasthesia brought on by ill-fitting shoes). Most subjects instead reported feelings of drowsiness, nausea, light-headedness, loss of balance and improvement in the condition of their haemerrhoids, which the Jackson-PharmaCom scientists duly noted.

A spokesman for Jackson-PharmaCom said: “We apologise wholeheartedly for any inconvenience that may have been caused by our advertisement. We hope you all continue to enjoy Jackson’s Rock, and don’t forget to complete and return the medical questionnaires for your chance to win a year’s supply!”

Rohit and Melissa also joined in this week.

Next week we're back to 300 words, and the title is "Disembodied Voices."

Burning bright

I am alone in the dark. Almost alone. The moon smiles at me; we are friends, the moon and I. She watches me as I sway in and out of the foliage, my ribcage swinging slowly left to right to left as I pad along, and my way is lit by the tears of happiness she weeps at the sight of me. Some fall on my hide and my tail, and when they do my golden stripes dazzle the timorous nocturnal animals who cower from me as I pass. I am their king, they are my subjects. I never travel during the day; my fur shines brighter than the sun, and, jealous, he tries to burn me, so I take sanctuary in the protection of the trees and escape him in sleep. Only the moon understands my needs, my desires for solitude and autonomy. Every night I choose a different path for her. Tonight I walk by the stream. I pause to dip my whiskers into it and lap at the cool waters, and she splinters into a thousand shifting pieces before my eyes. I wait for her to regain her shape and then I move on, walking past a sign, written by humans, that says “Keep Out”, and I realise that I can’t remember the last time I saw my mother or my sister. At the same time I realise that I don’t miss them at all. I ignore the sign; it has been a long time since I obeyed anyone. I walk on, into the ruins of an ancient tower. I have been here before.

Five Reasons

Last week's 300-word writing challenge title was "Five Reasons"...and it was actually a 450-word writing challenge.

“How many?”
“I’ve got two.”
“Me too. Damn, I was hoping you’d have three.”
“Yeah, well. What have you got?”
“OK, well, I know he—“
“Keep your bloody voice down!”
“Sorry…I know he hoards Company supplies, and I also know that he expressed clear and emotional disapproval when Catesby was Reorientated.”
“You have evidence?”
“Of course. I audiorec everything he says. You?”
“I’ve got him using Company e-ware for Offsite-related undertakings – I have digipics – and he told me last week that he thought that the Leader’s new TrueThought initiative was ‘unfair, unethical and unworkable’. It’s all there, on the cube.”
“Good.”
“They’re all good, but we still need one more. Did Rokewood come back with anything?”
“No.”
“Wintour?”
“No.”
”Damn. Listen, come here. It’s absolutely imperative that we get him out of our workcell asap, or the Colleagues will start to tar us with the same brush as him. I’ve seen the way they look at him. He’s being watched, which means we’re all being watched. Look, I’ve been a Company man my whole life, I’m not about to let him get me Reorientated. Not so close to retirement.”
“Can’t we make do with just four?”
“No. By order of the Leader. No Reorientations without five Good Reasons, he said, and I’m not going to risk getting a Good Reason against my name just for not following procedure.”
“Shame.”
“That’s how it is.”
“Listen, we won’t see him again, will we? If we do get him Reorientated.”
“When did you ever see a Reorient come back?”
”I suppose. It’s just that I feel a little…”
”Guilty? Don’t. He’s a parasite, he just takes, takes from the Company without giving anything in return.”
“What about his wife, though? What will—“
“His wife? What about my wife? What about your wife? You want Mary’s foodreq reduced because she’s married to a deviant?
“But I’m not a deviant.”
“You will be if he drags us all down with him. I’m damned if I’m going to let his behaviour taint hard working Colleagues like you and me.”
“I suppose.“
“Listen, try not to worry about it. If he did the right thing then nothing would happen to him, would it?"
”I suppose.”
“Good lad. Damn, is that the time? I swear offtimes were longer when I was your age.”
“We’d better log back in.”
“Talking of work, where is he? Isn’t he supposed to be at the workcell by now? His station’s unoccupied.”
“He’s late.”
“Hold on…say that again.”
“’He’s late.’ Why?”
“For the audiorec. We just got number five.”

Next week, for those who are interested, the word count is 250 and the title is "Jackson's Rock".

Pure fiction

Labour majority in 2001: 165

Labour majority in 2005: 66

Tony Blair: "We have got to listen to the people and respond wisely and sensibly, but they have made it very clear they wanted to carry on with Labour."



Image culled from Private Eye.

Why we do what we do

Running running I’m running towards something don’t know what it is never know only know that I have to run must get there as fast as possible otherwise something bad will happen don’t know what but something bad all I know is that I must run follow the trail patter antennae on the ground and follow the trail painted gold on the floor by some anonymous sister as fast as I can to get to the fruit or the sugar or the caterpillar or whatever else it is one of the scouts has found don’t know what it is doesn’t matter just get there quick get there quick scamper round the rock over the twigs dance across the waxy leaf don’t look left don’t look right then there it is a massive peach bruised and soft and smelling of nectar even at this distance covered in a twitching black mosaic of ants and I run with them alongside them tap antennae briefly but don’t waste time with pleasantries no time for that never time for that then scale that enormous golden north face find a seam and start digging chew the flesh nibble nibble chew it into a manageable transportable lump golden juices dribbling over shiny black thorax over shiny black head into shiny black mouth and now it hits liquid sugar explosion inside my brain and it tastes so sweet feels so good and a thought slips inside my head uninvited and makes me wonder why it is that I’m running all day doing this when I could just sit here and drink sugar-water

I could just stay here, I could just stay here. Roll the thought around a few times; I could just stay here. I don’t have to go back. I could stay here and drink the sugar-water, stay here and relax. I could just stay, I could

now I remember why I’m doing this I’m doing it because I have to shouldn’t have had those kinds of thoughts mustn’t have those kinds of thoughts again mustn’t stop mustn’t slow down they need me they all need me to keep going if I didn’t who knows what would happen pick up the lump of peach can’t stop can’t rest patter antennae can’t just go off and do whatever I want to run back along the trail quick quick I’m part of the community and the community is more important than me more important than me more important than me