Mania

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This page describes or alludes to topics that may be uncomfortable or upsetting to readers. Please avoid this page if you are sensitive to insanity, uncensored curse words, or mature humour.

Mania - a series of freestyle narrative poems by Tilan. Tilan has finally decided to start writing again, and she does so by showing off her insanity :)

This story is a spin-off from South of the Sunset, set in Evensol.

## Watch

I tiptoe as I am pulled from the realms of sleep.

It pays to tiptoe. You never know what might be there at the gate.

There is always a guard at the threshold of things, is there not? A sentry or a policeman, perhaps. Someone to keep watch.

The police. The watch. They're watching, but watch on what?

My wrist. I look at the time, and I suppose that I am late for work.

Watches. Never could stand golden watches. The fancy things are for the rich, I say.

Of course, I myself cannot afford them. All the more reason to hate the sodden things.

Got to go. Got to go for work.

I must work, for I have money to make. Time is money, money is time.
Get enough money and you can have more time.

Get enough money and you can have anything.

Get enough money, and I can get a golden watch. I can watch my watch and store time in it.

I'm about to be late. I need time.

Time is everything.

## Time

Everything is time.

Time is golden. Does that make everything golden?

If your name is Midas, then yes. If your name is not, then no. I'm afraid not.

So they say time flies by on silver wings.

What is the damn thing, anyway, when you get down to it? Is it silver and golden at the same time?

It's like that bloke's crown, isn't it.

Someone smuggled silver into time, and now I need to tell if they did use silver without breaking time apart.

Ha.

I don't want to break time. Time is valuable.

Tume should not be wasted or lost, so I shouldn't break it as well.

Time is a vase. Made of china. Don't waste it!

I shall put my flowers in time, roses and doffodils and lilies.

And then I shall cry Eureka when I bathe, and run out on to the street without any clothes.

Cut the last half of that sentence out.

Eureka!

Showering in the morning does feel good. Clears up your thoughts.

Makes you catch a cold. Not me though. I'm strong and healthy.

Eureka eureka eureka.

Why do I have to make do with silver time when I can have it gold?

## Gold

My bread is baked golden. Nice and crispy, always liked the crust.

My time should be like that.

Golden.

Like the eyes of a newborn child or the laughter of an old man under the sun.

Golden in a flowing, ever-widening spring, like fairies and the clapping of hands.

Hymns, and total, absolute bliss.

If only my life was golden like the sun's treasure, shining bright in a cave by night,

Then why, I should have been a rich man by now.

The bite of the bread is nothing like the taste of time.

Time, like bread, can be eaten.

Time is money, and you eat your money. So you eat time.

Time is bitter with the pear trees of memory, and sweet with the bananas of future dawns.

And then there are tomatoes and lettace and cabbages and grapes that don't stand for anything, but hell they do taste good.

Time is a salad, and I am eating that salad.

I eating my time, devourong in big, thick chunks. Like a raptuous monster I eat, gulfing it down, forever starving.

When you run out of food, you die. When you run out of time, you die also.

But you can buy food.

You buy food with money.

And thus I will wait, and I shall buy my time.