Poetry By Father Time

The game is afoot. If I choose not to play, am I free from having to play? Is it really a game, or, perhaps it is a holographic kindergarten for fledgling Gods, or criminals, or madmen? You say the choice is mine. But if the choice is mine, I ask, what then, are my choices? You say that when it is time, I shall know. How many days and nights must I wait? How many weeks, months, millennia, days and nights of Brahma must I wait??? You say, it is yours now. You say, the choice is yours, it always has been...... So mote it be. Kronos (waxing poetic)