A fistful a chestfull a fitful was I and the voice cocked its head and said something or other. Shutsh! I murmured, and almost vmited from the strain. The voice said nothing, but it was still there. I knew it can sai'n no no. As sane as I am I cannot contentd with the rules of it all, that is, that voices imaginary cannot contradict themselves by ceasing to be so, for when an imaginary voice refuses clear bidding it no longer becomes by us, it is, and not by, but rather by means of, us, that is me, but when I say us I mean myownself, myaloneself, the self which I own, and up to too. And here I am, bileful mouthful, bent in a vacuum of my own making, with voice cocked for a broadside. One would expect a mirror, but I can't see it. The voice: consider my gaze. It said, and I unbent myself with the rest of my rage, and inhaled. Rage is not and never was. I am it now, though, and through this I most precisely cannot be, for what is aligned with that which runs precisely counter to that which is, ceases to be. Through rage I decline my minutes onto death, I become less, the more I am rage. But how can I deny that apart from non-being, universal thisolution, there are means to dreadful ends which my anti-aner does suffer even now:

The eternal chariot, vosьmorka in the carpark with bedraggled burden on a cable towed, delightful clang as the stochastically excoriated parody's head collides with lamppost, not in the very least tinged with disappointment that the parody is no longer “aware” - it never was, it cannot be, to refer to it as possessing thought or even gender (male btw) is to say too much. I regret the word parody, for parodies are somehow linked to the original. And here I, us, am the original and I chose my parody, I choose that which by its very pretence to existence offends me and I choose to destroy it. The trebuchet, the glass, the liquids and solids of latent entropy. This is no Hector, there is no Troy. There is only me and that part of us which extends to invite non-being. I grasp the brick which I am washing clean, while the voice murmurs on.

I am victorious in all my debates except those which end when I realise there is no auditorium besides the voice and myself. The all do that. And ever I am laid low whenever there are others in attendance, since one cannot have the last word unless biologically. Oh how I long to. The brick I wash for that very reason, it has been invited into my life for that very purpose, to strengthen my extremities so that I might enforce my extremes on mine opposites. Does the parody rage against me? No! The parody cannot be, it ought not, should not, is not, and it is up to me to enforce that non-being! No instance of a parody can infringe upon us! The voice drones on about the brick, which I release from its lather and introduce it to its guest room to dry. I stop talking to myself. So end the prologue. Forsooth I know not why I am so sad.