Suddenly, it was later than I'd imagined

It was always later than I imagined.

Scary Terry, down the coalmine, had suggested that it was time to fly away, before we fell asleep from some fumes we couldn't see.

The corridor, that had the snake at its bottom, was filled with dried flowers, the kind that grandmas across England had spent, since the war, showing off in their houses. Bushels of honesty, as the people disappeared. All that would eventually be left, would be David and his virgin writing. Before the money came his way, and he'd realise that little of worth would need to be worked for, because it had been given. Just sanctimonious drivel, of which at one time, he'd accused me.

The problem, when your search for truth, consists of taking the prescribed road that had, hitherto, yielded none, there was little of worth to be found by taking the ways of the most travelled men. Take me away from this arduous existence, in which I worked for everybody, yet gained nothing. I was promised a life, and I'm still here, demanding. I'm not going away, until I fucking get it.

The real facts of the case are, that whenever I did anything, it never affected those in my environment, because I always ran, as hard as I could, away from all whom could possibly have ever known me. It was such an escape I longed for. I'd even suck, joyously, on a leper's cigar, if I had to. I didn't care. Freedom from tyranny, is always worth it.

I was glad she was gone, at last.