* * *
After too many long and lonely years, someone has finally moved in to the house next door.
He calls himself Macbeth, and I can barely understand a word he says.
* * *
When I was so much younger, an older boy in the neighbourhood used to tell me stories of our ancestors and how we would drive tribes of natives off the edge of cliffs so as to avoid the hassle of feigning concern for their assimilation into the general populace.
I think about those old days, far more often now than ever, and likely this perhaps overthinking has led to me writing down these few lines before I go pick up my neighbour and what remains of his extended family and drive them to the national park for a closer look at the escarpment.
* * *
They called him Timur the Great, and among his ever growing tribe of warriors he was renowned for numerous conquests.
When he woke up, he was simply Tim again, and he rose from bed and wiped away the dust and debris that had accumulated during the night, showered and shaved and dressed and kissed his fiancée goodbye, then went into the office and slaughtered two secretaries and his boss, who were determinedly all standing in the way of his westward expansion.