That next time seems to have come sooner that I or you had thought. And as quicky as the compulsion to say more had entered my hands to continue the tap-tapping upon the soft-grey buttons or the keyboard, the train of though that had left the station so quickly, indeed before it had had the opportunity to pick up passengers, had derailed after passing the end of the platform. What weak ballast is that that it should be warm rice-porridge and not gravel? Borne aloft upon rails that alternate between the sturdy prongs of steel to the elasticized rubber that are the bits of chicken that dot my mother's weekend rice-porridge. No wonder the trains don't last long upon their route! Are we so smitten by this experiment gone absurd called life that upon the very end of it, wither at the death-bed or in the twinkling of an eye that is our last moment, that we say "yes" to the eternal record keeper? "Yes" to a return to try again, or do better, even to live the life with undenialble sameness. This struggle to contain ourselves, struggle to be free from the evils that bedog our effort - what compulsion drives our need to feel the timeless struggle between the fates? What sign is given in the midst of battle that signals our success or failure? What sounds of horn or trumpet, or wave of flag is given to show that this assault upon our unseen yet relentless foe has been successful?

I am weary of fight and in a wan smile, look with jealous eyes upon those who, whether by simplicity or acceptance, have gained some perch upon the battlements of the foe. Wither love, riches, family, health? Are these tanglibles as important as the struggle itself to banish hate, selfishness, fear, lying? Perhaps a more intricate and clear mind than mine shall expound the answers to us, but shall we believe? Shall we be so dry and thirsty as to believe the very first set of marauding aliens that arrive unannounced and who shall claim to be the forebears of our ancestors and the meddlers of our existence? Are we so short of memory and reading that we thrust our trust into the first hand that rears it's open grasp saying, "give it me, for it is mine"?

Have we come so far and so fast that we are so afraid of our own judgement? Verily, there are 2 powers at work. Quick shall be the one who would now label me and distance from me and my thoughts. Do you not trust upon that inner voice within that shouts without a voice? It shouts and screams injustice, heaped upon you and others and the world and yet you are mute. It calls upon the very ledger of heaven to record your doings all and whereupon you shall, and mark me now that the lingering eveil shall clasp it's hands over it's ears tightly and begets you to do the same, recount upon the last day and fall from your own lips all that you and I have done. I do not mean to chastize nor preach. It is merely a fixture of mine own spirit that hath spoken thus. I weep tears of happiness and those of lamentations upon our beautiful and bountiful Earth. "Theory of Plate Tectonics" - it still is a theory. "Theory of evolution" - this stillborn child of the mind of that traveller of the Beagle; Darwin, is still a theory and is being wrested from it's once unassailable seat upon the throne of man's tiny understanding. We really do not understand the world upon which we live. We have rejected the rules which were laid down for us and have appointed men to assign new ones acceptable to the merchants, politicians, bankers and heretical leaders in their place. The world that is our one Earth knows only one gardener.