Where the words crawl back unwillingly, questioningly. Unsure.

They do you know. Look at you questioningly. The words. They want to know if you are going to be nice to them or if you are going to mangle them and make them ugly. Make them incomprehensible, unwanted. Having no place to go and so just forced to wait it out. Wait for the rest of their lives, or until someone comes and rescues them, sees some value in them.

Words can hurt too you know. They can feel pain and neglect. They know when they are not wanted, not cared for. They have feelings too.

They do. I like to think they do. Because, and I swear this is true, I can see the words prancing and dancing in the air. Right in front of me, like those motes. You know those tiny tiny pieces of magic that have come from another universe and are having the time of the lives here. Dancing all over the place.

Be kind to the words. Be kind.


I saw a crazy man walking down the road yesterday morning. Right in the middle of the road, screaming and muttering at something I could not quite see. He could though. He could see it clear enough.

I wonder if madness is something you can voluntarily dip into, and then climb out. Or does it taint you forever? Is it something that never lets you go? Does it seep into you, seep right in to you. In to your eyes and your mind until all you can breathe is the madness? Or is it something a little less sinister? At least in the beginning. Like a warm pond you dip into and play around with, until its time to go home. To go back to the predictable and the sane?

I wonder if it is an addiction of sorts. If there is an element of voluntariness involved. That, at some point, your mind wants to go into that pool, into that warmth, where things dont need to make sense to others, just to you.

Madness, like most evil things, can be a terribly lonely thing.


What do you think happens to unfulfilled wishes? Do you think they all end up meeting somewhere? Carrying tiny bits of self-pity? There must be some relieved unfulfilled wishes though. Like that fucker who wished for all toothbrush bristles to taste like karela.

You think all the UWs are just lying in a bar somewhere? Somewhere far far away where these things can and do happen? Talking to themselves, chatting about what they could have become, what they could have done, how they could have changed the fate of an entire species.

If only.



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