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         Morton walked. Morton walked because his troubled soul allowed him no rest, no comfort, no sleep. His whole existence lay in turmoil; his habitual, peaceful life had abruptly been recast. His pride and his honour had driven him out into an uncaring world. His deeds were an irreversible part of his personal history and he dreaded the path he foresaw in his future. Within his mind, there could be no return to the past; he could see no way to escape what unquestionably lay ahead.

     Consumed by this profound perplexity, a dilemma that gnawed at his existence, threatening to end his otherwise tranquil life, Morton walked incognizant of the world. The words of strangers, their gestures, and their very existence were being denied to his conscious thought by the abyss Morton had been cast into. Reality, even life itself, was passing him by.

     “Morton, Morton,” a woman’s mournful voice called out from somewhere nearby.

     Although those words had been spoken in close proximity, the sound of his name being uttered produced no visible effect. The listless figure simply continued to wander rather aimlessly upon his way.

     “Morton! Morton!” the sad, cheerless voice called out a second time in much louder, more distinct words.

     Again, this dismal utterance barely registered within Morton’s afflicted mind.

     “Morton! Morton!” Those same two eerie words were repeated with much more urgency.

     At first, Morton only became conscious of a cold, light but foreboding mist which enveloped him. Then, emerging from the conundrum which had ravaged his mind, he finally became aware of the existence of that melancholic feminine voice. With that awakening, he was torn from his morbid thoughts and became acutely cognizant of his surroundings.



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