• Continued from Schramble -15-.

Dramatis Personae.

• Magenta.
• Red the bunny.

• Magenta. Just what the hell was that?
• Red. I've batptized and annointed you as the Pope.
• M. What does it mean?
• R. I cannot tell you now. It can't be told perfectly now and here.
• M. Why? I didn't expect to get the answer, but why did you put the perfectness as the excuse? It doesn't need to be perfect. I am imperfect. My art is imperfect. Yet are not I and my work?
• R. What we've got to, it has to be perfect. Some entities are like that, you'd know...
• M. No, I don't know. Does your plan even exist? If it be, is it even possible? For I feel like I keep getting false promises, whose goals are never to be done. Aiming for the perfection is pointless, and the beauté arises from the imperfection. I am not a good drawer but are they not charged with my emissions? But not full of them, for the final emission is yet to come.

• R. See, that has to be perfect!

• M. Oh, I never expected anyone but me to understand my ramblings. Rambling makes me. My life keeps repeating with some variations like music, and I feel like I don't know the music theory. See, when the moment is gone and I see what I had written, sometimes I think that it needed not be written -- and published. Alcohol often is my excuse, but can it be said that sober I is more I than drunk I who doesn't pretend to be normal? My writing, with akward expressions and archaisms, with no meters and rhymes, bearing pathetic emotions, exhibits me then and now. So no, I don't regret that one.
  God, I am too sober to speak more.