Surreal Detective Story

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. This is the core of all criminal reasoning, the excuse of selfish actions, and the opportunity to nullify one's suppressed regrets; regrets that seem to trail behind him like bread crumbs, constantly reminding him of past scratches into his wall of memory.

As I slouch here at my dead assembly of oak, which happens to be covered with shards of other chopped specimen, I can't bear but toil with the delicate situations of those in dire need of mental peace. The torment of injustice eats away at me until the scavengers of despair conquer any hint of calm in my temperament. We creatures of habit, who can not find an innocent path, to escape the looming, dark, cloud tracing our every movement and memory fall into the slithering lifestyle of a snake. It is almost too much to bear, which is why the capture of a perpetrator is common in a place such as this. This is my stronghold, a web in which flies can not escape.

As a figure moves through the early obscuring haze, I peer from my perch as I so often do, wishing I could be in a position to leave this place. The duty to investigate and examine is not as simple as it may appear. The process of deciphering another's inner thought is a skill, and not one easily acquired.

Mistakes are part of human nature, and so is my reason for lying in wait. I do not want to be punished; I could run and escape this place. The explorer travels through forest and desert, with no desire to harm the natural layout of the land. However, the areas where his feet scrape the earth's crust remain disturbed. The other side of the problem is the snake, crawling in the dust of the world, hoping to remain unnoticed. The snake awaits innocent prey to fill his needs and desires. I seem to relate to both sides of this explanation, one because of a false identity. No one knows who I truly am. At times I have been the innocent man, but did anyone notice or give me attention for being average? Today I am the perpetrator who seems to have left too many bread crumbs.

The figure outside has now moved to the entrance of my establishment, and I can't seem to relax. There is so much to think of and so little time in which to do it. I have run once, is my stress truly worth fighting for? For in my mind, it appears to be all that I have. Before I take up my things I must decide my own fate. Before I leave by handcuff and claw I could climb to the top of my tower, but once at the top there is no turning back, I am trapped.

Just as I mentioned earlier, this stronghold is a web in which I catch flies; however, it appears that the final victim is I. By manipulating the lives of others, I have lost companionship with all except my own person, but I don't

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