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May. 11th, 2004
Thoughts of a Madman
May. 11th, 2004 11:09 pm(For my Werewolf game)
The yellowed moon hangs low in the purple sky of early morning as the first of commuters wake for the daily grind. Sitting in the third floor of his dirty, run-down building, Stares-At-Nothing considers the night's events...
I wonder what's so special about our pack. Why did we get a prophesy. Not everyone gets a prophesy, you know. I wonder if the day's significant. Maybe some astrological omen. I don't remember seeing an omen, and Destiny is not a fickle mistress. She usually knows what she's doing. Knows what she's doing. Knows what she's doing. Like those Spiders, the ones on the Water Pump that Susan wanted to break. She thought they were bad, that they would hurt the water, that they would hurt the kids, that they were the Weaver's, that they were different, that they were bad. The little Spiders. The little, glittering Spiders, with their clicking and scampering and webs. Webs. Shiny webs. Shiny silky webs. I think they were silky. Maybe I should ask James, he got stuck in them. He would know how they felt. They were in the hospital, too. The webs. And the Spiders. More than there should have been. More than was usual. They set things off balance. Or maybe they fixed the balance that was missing. Spiders do that, fix things, clean them, organize them... But too much organization is itself an imbalance. There must be chaos, too. All things in balance, all things in balance. Destiny will see us through. She will guide us. The message said not to be late, said J. Not to be late, not to be late, not to be late, but late to what? Was I there on time? Did I miss it? Has it not happened yet? Maybe J. is the omen I'm missing, the Messanger, trying to tell us something about the prophesy, the Voice of Destiny herself, leading us, guiding us, showing us the way. Like Father Wheels, and his spining wheels, spinning wheels, spinning wheels...
The yellowed moon hangs low in the purple sky of early morning as the first of commuters wake for the daily grind. Sitting in the third floor of his dirty, run-down building, Stares-At-Nothing considers the night's events...
I wonder what's so special about our pack. Why did we get a prophesy. Not everyone gets a prophesy, you know. I wonder if the day's significant. Maybe some astrological omen. I don't remember seeing an omen, and Destiny is not a fickle mistress. She usually knows what she's doing. Knows what she's doing. Knows what she's doing. Like those Spiders, the ones on the Water Pump that Susan wanted to break. She thought they were bad, that they would hurt the water, that they would hurt the kids, that they were the Weaver's, that they were different, that they were bad. The little Spiders. The little, glittering Spiders, with their clicking and scampering and webs. Webs. Shiny webs. Shiny silky webs. I think they were silky. Maybe I should ask James, he got stuck in them. He would know how they felt. They were in the hospital, too. The webs. And the Spiders. More than there should have been. More than was usual. They set things off balance. Or maybe they fixed the balance that was missing. Spiders do that, fix things, clean them, organize them... But too much organization is itself an imbalance. There must be chaos, too. All things in balance, all things in balance. Destiny will see us through. She will guide us. The message said not to be late, said J. Not to be late, not to be late, not to be late, but late to what? Was I there on time? Did I miss it? Has it not happened yet? Maybe J. is the omen I'm missing, the Messanger, trying to tell us something about the prophesy, the Voice of Destiny herself, leading us, guiding us, showing us the way. Like Father Wheels, and his spining wheels, spinning wheels, spinning wheels...