Abstract.

 

I feel as though all I am is all that is abstract. That everything that seems to be, merely 

 

isn’t. So...everything that was, has never been? Or was everything that was, was, but I 

 

chose to see it as something that it wasn’t? Was everything that was wrong really right?

 

Right. Right is left and left is write? Writing, I sit here writing, reading a story that isn’t a 

 

story at all.

 

Compelling, this telling of a tale is

 

but did you know....

 

Many have heard those tell of tales,

 

but I have heard those tale of tells. 

 

Why me? Go ahead and ask and you’ll see. 

 

Oh my, I would gladly tell, but I haven’t the time you see.

 

I keep time, but time seems to keep me. 

 

All is all, or has all always been just me?

 

Let me introduce myself...

 

Or have you already met me?