I feel as though all I am is all that is abstract. That everything that seems to be, merely
isn’t. So...everything that was, has never been? Or was everything that was, was, but I
chose to see it as something that it wasn’t? Was everything that was wrong really right?
Right. Right is left and left is write? Writing, I sit here writing, reading a story that isn’t a
story at all.
Compelling, this telling of a tale is
but did you know....
Many have heard those tell of tales,
but I have heard those tale of tells.
Why me? Go ahead and ask and you’ll see.
Oh my, I would gladly tell, but I haven’t the time you see.
I keep time, but time seems to keep me.
All is all, or has all always been just me?
Let me introduce myself...
Or have you already met me?