I've decided I hate airplanes.
I'm not off the jet yet, and it won't land for another I-don't-know-how-many hours, and I am already jet-lagged and I want to kill myself.
Maybe I could, I'll only come back.
But no. Being in the Void is the worst feeling ever; so although I can't permanently die, I don't like to die temporarily either.
Whatever, I'm straying off topic again, aren't I?
Sorry, can't help it. My stomach keeps lurching in the most dreadful ways. See's barks are annoying me to no end. Bee is immersed in her books. Aar looks nauseated too, but I doubt he feels as sick as I do. Es is flirting with the air, thinking she'll catch a butterfly here, of all places. Sometimes I wish I was as naïve as her.
Popcorns are popping in my skull. I am thinking of poetry and songs. I like poetry and songs. I made a little ditty just now, in fact.
It's bound to be cringe, but do you really expect anything less than a masterpiece from the mind of this genius, yours truly?
That's right.
Anyhow, here it is.
"We're all gonna die
And I need a pie
The clock is going tick-tock-tick
And I am sick, sick, sick
So please, could you do me a favor,
Es?
Get me something to KICK!"
They say the best poetry comes from the heart. From love or from sorrow.
I say it comes from your stomach. When it's thousands of feet above the ground, doing somersaults inside your body.
Some lines don't rhyme? It's inconsistent? What do you mean, it's not consistent? That's called having a rhyme scheme, you doofus!
You like it? Oh, thanks! Come on, now, it isn't even that good!
Oh, it is? Why, thank you, kind sir, kind ma'am.
Awe, you want another one? What's that, madam? The story can wait? I guess it can. So here's another one for my most wonderful, keen listeners/readers.
(Clearing my throat.)
""I am on my way to
I know not where
Us passengers are screws
With hammers in our hair
We'll go meet a witch
She'll grant us our wish
And we'll either be on our way back
Or there'll only be our bones packed in a sack""
What's that, dear sire? Too dark for your taste?
Hate to break it to you, but life isn't fair. In case you haven't noticed. Living under a rock or what?
And what's that? Why am I acting like there's an audience to my words? Because this flying has driven me crazy, that's why!
Oh yes, what, ma'am? You want me to stop with the poems? Get back on track?
Tell you of the Ghost Moon (I kind of like to call it the Witch Moon; suits where we're headed, don't you think?) and how we got here?
Fine, fine. Your choice.
I just wanted to get this jet-lag off my mind.
And also to prepare you for the madness that follows.
Ugh. Marra's songs are nothing short of annoying; am I right or am I right?
CITEȘTI
Sort of Dead
Umor**This book features short, fun, snappy chapters** **Perfectly fine as a standalone** [Caution: may pack a couple of gutpunches.] "First things first: this is the story of how I die. Over and over again." __________________________________ Marra is...
