To say i am man. Men are mice, mice are mightey, and the mighty fall like the rest of us.

I stand high on a perch to servery my landscape, ever changing and distorted.
Pieces here and there slip away from it's brother-en. The mountains fall through the earth to disappear with-in a void only to be replaced by fields, and the oceans seep into sky only be filled with mountains. In this land of chaos, the landscape moans as it is ripped apart and sown back together for eternity. So in order to ease its pain, I decide what to do with these changes, try and make the pieces fit into place.

The people of this world are constantly horrified by the specter ever looming and so i give them peace of mind, help them migrate on. It is i who they sing for, it is I who they curse, it is i that must soothe them, after watching fellow men whisked away in hearse

I am god perhaps, a failing being for sure, but to end my world means to end their world. And what man would i be if gave up so early in their war on life.

So i will walk on into my horizon, an existence above the world in-which they weep tears of blood to strengthen there futile lives. I shall walk in my world, trudge forward for tomorrow. I shall shed tears of crimson, toil for my purpose, and hope to see a better day. Not just for me, but the fates in which i spin; all while a man just like me surveys from such great heights, and frantically tries to make the pieces fit into place.