More than being a song stuck in my head right now, "Pink Elephants On Parade," has been stuck in my head and running near continuously for close on two weeks now.

It does not go away from my day or nights, nor leave my thoughts to be.

I'm beginning to hear the song in technicolor too.

A Manic Panda originally was the name of an espresso bar I wanted to open, but it turned into the place for a story. Sometime later a friend said it described me as well, and soon other friends would say the same. These days A Manic Panda is the name to my storytelling website and other social media places, like here on Prose.

At what cost does it end? After my pursuers back me in a corner, then I break them, I make them cry. I will kill their sons, sell their daughters into slavery, rape their wives, torture their parents, make them eat their own pets, and finally when they beg to die, I will forgive them for wanting my head on a stick... that's what it costs for it to end.

"You don't need to see our identification. We aren't the time travelers you're looking for. They can go about his business. Move along."

"We don't need to see their identification. They aren't the time travellers we're looking for. They can go about your business. Move along... move along."

The two time travelers returned to the DeLorean driving past the checkpoint where the Stormtroopers remained on the lookout for two time travelers.

I would have a Vietnamese pot bellied pig. I would dress him up every late afternoon and we would go out for walks in the neighborhood to the wonderous delights of little ones and the quivering fear of big dogs.

My health won't allow this, right now. I'll settle for who I have, several little green houseplants who watch over me for just a little caring, water, sun, and the sometime protection from the cold.