I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger, on his way to the good life. Before I get there, I have to traverse this world of pain. I have been walking for a while now left my past for the past, but it's still being held up to me, like a broken mirror which picks only the images it wants to reflect. I've blamed everyone for what I've done, but the shards never hesitated in naming me the guilty one. So I left. Every step I take is toward a more painful future but hopefully also towards redemption and a blissful afterlife. My path is strewn with people who wish to deny me my rightful passage, but I'm not afraid. I follow the narrow way in this reborn life and when I get to the end, I believe my father will be waiting for me

The cold moon holds it central position, right above the hill. That mansion on the top it's been there for nigh on 65 years. 16 years ago, the old man who built it and occupied it for so long passed on. Someday he'll be back. But they say that everything that dies someday comes back. There's rumours flying 'round about a great fortune hidden in some part of the house. Attracted all sorts of futureless deadbeats. One in particular was persistent. Never found anything, he died without having a penny to piss away. Critter, or Cratter, his name was. Something in that fashion. My brother became obsessed with it. One night he convinced me to go out to the house and stripsearch the whole place. Why people choose the night for these kind of endeavours I'll never know. But I went along with his plan, hoping that it would end this hopeless treasurehunt of a dream. He may be a bit off, but he's still my brother . Well it certainly ended, and I will never be able to tell you why. As soon as we stood in the wheatfields outside the craggy estate I felt the urge to bail like an escaped convict, but I ignored it. Not even when my brother loaded his sawed off .410 as we entered the house - I'm all for safety. My safety. After that it all goes blank. I wake up the next day, flat-faced in the wheatfield, brother gone, car gone, house the same except for some bulletholes. The police came asking for my brother a few days later, they never told me why. I said I didn't know where he was. I really don't.

To cross this here river I need money, and I ain't had me no money since july. But I must push on, I carry me some important news. You told me to deliver it at all costs. I'll have to make me a deal with the one who controls the ferry. My watch ought to suffice. It's an old family heirloom, but where I am now I have no use for family nor time. Ties will only hold me back; time is not the decisive factor of this journey. My wings will make sure my feet never tire, so that I can move through night and day. They will prevent my heels from being damaged by the the jagged rocks we will no doubt have to overcome. The danger lies in my own conviction: knowing the message I carry, will I still see the importance of it when my foes close in on me? Will the foe within me, inherint in everyman, remain slumbering, not showing himself before I reach my goal of universal importance? Is my goal that of Ulysses , the right man on the right path, or of the fallen angel, on his way to let man taste the fruit of knowledge ? Is my way the narrow way, or will my path break up into fragments, into undefined indeterminacy ? I know I won't be home tonight. I can hear the dogs howling .