Practically everyone fell to their knees at the sound of the whistle. Maszar glanced backwards at the iron rod pressed to his spine and the articulated expression of a misty thought-god that held the holographic weapon prisoner. He believed, and the sudden twitch of dendrites and synapses claustrophobicly trapped him inside of his head- - he began screaming, "too small, too small!" like it made a difference and scratched at the walls of his mind as the Queen of Deza Park dosed her way into the debate panel of his mind for an evening special of Into the Mist.

There wasn't much left to debate when she arrived- - the synapses were firing at one another, frightened warriors frantically snapping their own necks in unintentional combat or disillusioned by the unromance of war. Dendrites and neurons began to shoot themselves hard in the temple as the world swiveled into a whirlpool around them, thoughts crashing through the unprotected dam of the cerebral cortex and landing on the war torn beaches of repressed memory. Slowly, the chasm between Maszar's body and mind began to close- - revealing to the war torn gods the implicit unity within each explicit duality, swapping sanity for quick sand and comfort for faded lenses through which scratch marks created a tear in the space-time continuum.

If only.. was his second-to-last thought.

If only there was some way to measure the death erupting within me to see if..
was his last.