May 27th, 2002 - 12:40 a.m.

A moment of extreme weakness.

What if? What if all this malaise. All this strife. All this beating of the chest. Is all for naught?

�Oh, but you syncopated simpleton. It is always all for naught,� its hollow chuckle exposing its tonsils.

Feeling the cold arrest the fingertips. The brightness of the tip of the cigarette. Smoke curling up past the reaching arms of the trees, embracing the monochromatic moon. The damp rough wooden floor nibbling at the toes. The forward evening breeze brushing through the hair without as much as a �May I?�

�Can�t anybody see? We have a war to fight here.�

I have no weapons you see, but this wit of mine. And at this point, it is hard to judge whether it is sharp or dull. There is no ruler for such things you see, no scale. And in a battle of wits against brawn, I have lost already. That has been seen to. Again. And again. And yet again. Stretching beyond infinity.

�Well, that is a gross exaggeration. An exaggeration of vast proportions, a...�

�Will you cease your incessant babbling? One would think that you had just fallen of that fabled tower! Out with you, you misformed poultry,� she interrupts, in no mood for such gibberish.

She hangs on by a thread. One thread. Pray that Clotho keeps on spinning. And that Atropos� blades are duller then my wit.

She shakes her fist at immaturity. And irresponsibility. "How dare you?" she hollers. And no one responds. Not even a nod of the head. She does not realize that their ears are all blocked. No one will listen.

One fear hangs above. Fear is omniscient, you see. It knows all too well where to prod and poke. Doubt is its minion. And it says: �What if all this is merely leading to a grand display of impotence? What if you are at the brink, and you can do nothing but quiver and quake?�

And she can only stammer in response, �I am going out for a cig. You cannot stop me.�

N.

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