Babyman and the Great Race War

In the beginning GOD made the babymen

babymanadv6babymanadv5The babymen were all types of colors yet all the same.

babymanadv3The babymen felt lost in their new world.


So GOD bestowed upon them healthy nuggets of fine weed and the babymen rejoiced.


The babymen danced, sung and smoked the fine weed.


All was good in the babyman world till one day a babyman declared himself king of the weed.

babymanadv12“I am King of this weed!” the babyman declared


Then a great baby war began between the Brown babies and the Peach babies.

babymanadv14 The babymen fought for what seemed like centuries till neither babyman knew what they were fighting for, all the while no weed was smoked.


The carnage was unspeakable, the atmosphere turned red in a cloud of bloody baby mist.


Only one babyman was left in the great wars aftermath.

babymanadv9Tired, lost, bruised and bloodied this babyman could claim himself the victor of war.

babymanadv11 Yet he was all alone on a bloodstained terrain with nobody to share his spoils with.


Then GOD intervened yet again, placing him amongst nature and setting him along a path.


The path given to him was treacherous. To escape from his turmoil he must climb.

babymanadv20 and climb.

babymanadv19 and climb.

babymanadv18Till he reaches a great wooden precipice.

babymanadv25 Here he can look over the vast landscape devoid of fellow babymen, here he can see the form of existence.

babymanadv23It’s form is malleable, Shaped with time and opinion but still casting a never waining darkness, telling the babyman that you can either live in the light of existence or be within it’s shadow.

babymanadv8While babyman stared off into the great horizon, longing for his lost baby brothers and the fine weed he thought of a poem he once heard, it goes:

I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”


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