little on their shoulders. I can see them all from up here; the tops of their little heads run around, unable to cope with the truth of their platonic ideals. My moment arrived with my feet on the floor, as always. Three tolls. I had a suit then. And a tie. I took the bus. She looked so hurt and I couldn’t. I walked along my path - four tolls - too far down to turn, so far I couldn’t see her when I looked back around. So I continued on my own yellow brick road, until that conception began to creep, claw by claw, vertebrae by vertebrae, like a ladder to the recesses of memory and guilt. And there it nestled, and there it laid its wonderful eggs and there it never let me forget. All of a sudden I looked to the left, and the right, and up.There was no crossroads but that did not matter. I transcended above those little ants. I hate ants.They’re loyal to the Death to the system, their Queen. The ones that step off the path are the ones shunned, helped to ruin. But at least they’re unaware, blissfully playing out their life - five tolls – that they are nothing compared with the soldier ants. No, they know, they know what they’re doing with their PhDs of obtrusion and MAs of obfuscation. Their intricate tunnels dig deep into your mind, moulding, coercing and quarrying ever further. Up here I can observe and not play out. I have been observing for a while now. I have watched moments pass from my vantage point, and I have seen the wrought-iron arms of time continue their cyclic patterns, ingraining the recurrent and endless precedent of their incessant nature, each toll as irrelevant as the next, each one bringing those ants closer to their pointless demise. And in this pillar of forgotten moments I live, in the very monument of everything I despise in them - and only I see the irony.Through my mirror I see only the blight of order and ideals, the eternal cycle of the finite, and all of those ants, so solitary in their crowd.
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