Part Won-Tree

"I'm swaying like a boulder suspended on a pebble on the precipice of a cliff. I might come crashing down, or just sway, rocklike."

I've been standing on the edge of the cliff for so long now. I must have accustomed myself to the danger of falling, slowly letting go of the survival instinct, the intrinsic fear of falling. The subtle, yet addictive thrill of the possibility of falling has become so great that I can no longer step away. But I am cautious, I only take one little risk at a time, one step closer every time, slowly allowing myself to get out of balance, just for a little while. It's not that I have the desire to fall in, I just have been standing here for so long that it no longer scares me, unless when I close my eyes of course. When I let my imagination take over.

Good old Ovid wrote an epic poem called 'Metamorphoses', drawing on Greek mythology. The poem's subject, as the author indicates at the outset, is "forms changed into new bodies". From the emergence of the cosmos from formless mass into the organized material world to the deification of Julius Caesar many chapters later, the poem weaves tales of transformation. The stories are woven one after the other by the telling of humans transformed into new bodies — trees, rocks, animals, flowers, constellations and so forth.

A fictional assembly.
Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Objects in mirror may be closer than they appear.

We are indeed queer and quaint and all things that start with a Q, and we hammer like madmen, yet we wouldn't want it another way.

Step away.
Step away.
Step away.