Oversight leads us to our demise

That little man with the fire in his head. He wanted to preach with his gestures. His brisk pace was twisted due to the tattered notebook he transferred from location to location as he shouted obscenities. Deliberate anger marching had worked for him in the past, and now the plan was finally taking the shape that he preferred: triangle. Peaking at just a bit over five feet and wearing a workman's hat that slightly covered his thick, heavy black-rimmed glasses, he had little chance of catching a ride on the bus. His wife's medication was late in the mail and he had a speech to give. His kids disowned him when they saw the real world and they resented his natural tendency to laugh maniacally at them without a second thought. He kept things in jars as if to say, "you will never get out of that jar because the lid is screwed on so tight." Once he harnessed a bike helmet over his shoulder carried two strong coil type magnets in his hands in order to find the right place and time. Nobody really knows how much information his notebook held, or how important it was. It had been compiled in a little under 20 years, and it no doubt contained diagrams and figures. His travels took him in small circles about the neighborhood, some reporting to see him on several occasions within an hour's time. Some people thought he would lash out, while others saw him as more of a benign growth on their lower leg. He was indeed a malignant growth, and society would have to treat him accordingly. That is, if we can get to him before we are bound and possibly annihilated by his profound strategy, wrapped up in one small, wrecklessly organized notebook.