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I think it's time to tell you my whole sorry tale, how my fairy tale romance turned moldy and stale, but to be quite frank, I'm not in the mood.  Read between the lines and be alert and shrewd, and then you'll understand this whole dramatic craze, why I feel like such a rat in a maze.

I've seen too much and lived through it all, even though I may wait for the fall.  That final look of peace, that empty eye, weeping kinsmen and one final sigh—I think it's pretty, the way a soul soars, over green treetops and across open moors, all the way to wherever it goes—but where that is, nobody knows.  We can guess, hope through faith, chemistry.  But in the end, the issue is let be.

So this is brought back to me, your host, your narrator and your ghost.  For that's all I am—just a faceless form—and I'm among millions who can't survive this storm.  That's all life is, just a hurricane, winds and storm surge that sustain.  Sometimes you're lucky and reach the eye, but others you're buffeted and say good-bye.  So I suppose what I'm really trying to say (through all this rambling, I'm taking all day), is that I'm here, living through the storm, just trying for shelter and to keep warm.  And now I'll tell you, just one more rhyme, and stop taking up all of your time:

I've been on the ball and missed the beat.  But here's the thing—I'm still on my feet.