I feel rather low in my current state of mind as I simply try to pass the time. Without it being said, I have this feeling of dread that I somehow showed up at the wrong address, received a swift kick to the crotch, and then someone stole my watch. Writing this review and offering up a few lines without the promise of a single dime might just be the only way to make my spirit chime. If I can provide a few rhymes, maybe it will afford me a comfort of sorts or at least I can purport the significance of the situation before it leads to my own constipation of words, as the well runs dry, and I bat an eye at the pages I’ve left behind.
While I hoped to involve myself in this story of sorts caught in the ever promising world of Maine that Stephen King managed to indulge with more than a bit of fame, I fell flat on my face, and scraped my brace on the asphalt before me, as my hope dwindled to bits on a sea of shit. When I closed my eyes I saw the prize of Magdalena Morgan Jones swift to rise above the clouds and offer up a second wind, even if I wasn’t particularly interested in what she had to offer. Sure, she could tempt me with her charms and offer up a song and dance and possibly even a little romance, but I’d make a swift dash in the other direction.
Alex showed a bit of promise before it quickly dwindled to bits, and he turned into somewhat of a twit who made a rather stupendous sacrifice, even if he didn’t have a major vice that I could ascertain with my butane lighter. No other character really stood out for me in this ultimate and tragic dichotomy. Sure, it’s easy to argue my view has been tainted, and that I’m currently out of the market for sainthood, but I’ll say it again to you, my friend, that I think the story could have been shorter. A good editor in a current state of DELIRIUM could have hacked away and chosen to play with a number of fewer words.
And as I search for the Cure you’ll forgive me I’m sure if I decide not to continue on with this series. For while the masses may have come I don’t think I’m the one this particular tale was intended for. Now it’s off to my bed—or maybe off with my head. But either way, I’m proud to say that I continued this rhyme in spirit or in practice even if I did manage to make an ass of myself before I pulled the plug on the whole enchilada.