I need a little bit of time to break down these walls.There are no gates in this world ,only walls.Walls oozing blood, a pulse throbbing trough the swells of the mortar as if alive.DREAM.Dream of being trapped in an endless level of Wolfenstein except that there are no jackbooted Nazi shock troops for you to riddle with your Uzi.(Yeah,blood, sex and ultra-violence give me my kicks. )
So....enough of the morbidity.Lets go find Eccentrica Galumbitis(see I have been properly indoctrinated.)
Oh, about the tale..........Well lets see which coffin this Ishmael floats on.So where do I begin?
BETTER TO REIGN IN HELL THAN TO BE A SLAVE IN HEAVEN
Once upon a time in a universe far far away there lived a boy who built sandcastles .Little bent crooked ones, muddy ones with bits of plastic sticking out, funny fractal ones with towers, impregnable strongholds of leftover bricks.His little hands conjured stones to crystal thrones,upon these he sat and reigned.He had a court with treasures from the most perilious contests n conquests (namely an old top,a treasured old action figure called "shadowstorm" and a couple of worn-down trading cards).He surveyed the land before him,a quaint old land which had been there before he ever was and would still be when he was gone.The land of the "officer's bungalows" consisted of rows of fiefdoms where other fellow warriors lived.Some were of peaceful and content nature, others challenged him -but the most dangerous ones were the empty ones, not really empty since the old wariors had gone away -these were populated by the "munsters". The looked just like any of us but the difference was that they were dead inside, their faces were lined with the lines of disillusion and apathy, their dark black blind eyes seeing nothing of the boy's world before them.
Life in the land was cold,hard, uncomfortable and uneasy.Rivals abounded and the ogres cast dark spells of school -times. Often there were skirmishes ,a couple of epic battles and pyrrhic victories which ended with the boy being grounded n the ogres found their prize dahlias trampled.
And as you were, you'll be again
To mold like clay, to break like dirt
To tear me up in your sympathy