The Sanity of Professor R. J. Basil
Part Two

Say hello to the madness. Drip. Drip. Drip. Then all of a sudden, DROP. Then we start again. Drip. Drip. Drip. DROP. How alleviating. Enough to make a man go mad, no? Ah the walls. The beautiful walls. Kept here to cofine the outside world from the freedem in here. They are such fools. What do they think, they can hide forever? One day they will realise the truth. But not from me. Oh no, I'm too clever for that. It is much too premature for that eventuality. Time. Tick tock. Tick tock. Time is all a man really has, and even that is eventually taken away from him, along with everything else. But where does it go? And where does it leave the man? Alone on an island, surrounded by people he once knew, looking a lot paler and, shall we say, a little more translucent than usual? Hah, the irony ammusses me. See the rock? the rock knows. The rock knows all my secrets. Yes, he was in on it from the beginning. Ah, and the bellbird. You too knew of my plans. You never betrayed me, did you, Miss Bellbird. You were loyal to the end. It's a pitty they locked you away out there with all the other unenlightened. Oh, what plans we could contrive together! Be little as you may seem. I know what you are. You know I do. And the rock. he knows too. We all know, us three. But oh, the watermellon is bittersweet today. And tender all the same. Yet just like an orange, full of pips and pulp. Thats all I have left to stop from going mad. Of course, they assume I am already mad, when in fact it is only their ignorance which deems me mad, not evidence or denial, or torture or perseverance. What is it like on the other side? How many roses grow there, and how red is the grass? The crimson field in which they sent me, along with all the rest. All the rest who never returned, only to remain unaware of their dilusional paranoia or psycosis, or perhaps just trickery. Clowns are at work. The poor, sad faced clowns riding the small bikes. But they dont ee past their floppy shoes, hence they only see themselves. And all they feel is the prod of the ringmaster when they missbehave, or when they try and have a cigarette in the middle of a performance, whilst the whole unknown village they are visiting is at rest, watching every event with their beady little drills. Boring into my head. Drip. Drip. Drip. DROP. What goes around usually stays there. But only time will tell for sure. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

Contents

- Maori Myths & Legends

- For the Glory of Rome
- The Sanity of Professor R.J. Basil Part One, Two, Three
- The Trials of Archibald Henderson of Windsor

- Convergere

- Other