Tired Of The Dirge I'm tired of the dirge. I want to hear the beautiful melodies that bubble from within, not the mournful death talk. I want to take Her hand and lead Her, to show Her my world. It is dark in the ways of the world, and it is a dagger in my back, when I could be free. But I could run across a plain, the very plain of Megiddo, after the battle, and see only the flowers. I could show Her my world, which I myself have not yet seen, and it would be the more real for its discovery. It would not be only a world, but a new world that does not yet exist, until She sees and believes it, for I can not create it without Her. The grass grows so green, so rich, in the rich black humus formed of the darkness of mass annihilation, and I can only laugh. I hear the melodies, I can erase your dirge! I am not normal. I am evolutionarily retarded inside. I maintain a facade of intelligent decision, but instde I am only an animal, a beast. Is any man better? Can he judge his own actions as rational, when in actuality they are a dark movement of the misty ages? A splattered head and a "trophy", a dead animal with flies on it, slaughtered babies lying in the street, broken eggs in a song-birds nest, the oozy life seed lubricating the empty nest. Is man better? But these considerations are not my part, for it is only a meaningless absurdity to me. Death itself, mine or someone elses, is but a joke to me. I am not normal. Put me away! Truly, I belong in a hole with bars on it, I am to be put away, or in a hole with dirt on it, I am to be mercifully "put to sleep". This flood of turbid vomit has spattered this page, and my stomache is emptied. I am drained now, I am at rest. Maharimi Karotlovitch, Feb.-.March, 197'