The impersonator was worried. He knew that strange ways were running through the maze, strange ways, always, but he was stuck in the desert trying to find his way, lost lost in the desert trying to find his way, and why the heck was there an axe chopping down the forest from which he was made? The really strange thing was that he hadn't listened to matisyahu in two years, and now people were going to think that he was some sort of alter-ego for his creator. Even worse, they might connect him with Joshua. To show the fallacy of these thoughts the impersonator decided to do something drastic. Ever since he had the left the veiled tundra that was not New Mexico he had been troubled day to day. Sometimes he thought it might be easier to throw it all away. But then he remembered that life does go on, a gift of courage from the dawn of time. The forced inside him were fighting mightily, two angels wrestling until dawn, each one trying to gain complete control of his wounded psyche. It was, in a word, weird.
The impersonator finally decided that enough was enough, and it was high time for something drastic. "Oh right", he recalled, "I already decided on doing that." This was one of his problems. He never seemed to quite grasp that just because you had decided to do something it didn't necessarily mean that you were going to do it, and in fact, many people needed a lot of persuading to keep their word. Usually the impersonator, when assaulted by these thoughts, would simply give up on the whole venture, as if the multiplicitousness of the thing was somehow a bad omen.
Meanwhile, back at the palace, the king was bored. Everyone always thought that life was so easy being a king. Sure, he didn't have to empty his own chamber pot in the morning, and people had to bow whenever their presences collided, but at the end of the day he was only human, and he was bored. The king considered dealing with some of the important affairs of state that his secretary would undoubtedly throw at him if given the slightest hint of the merest inkling of a chance, but the king wasn't particularly enamored of the idea. The king then considered going down to the palace kitchens and getting something to eat, but then he remembered that the princess consort has told the royal chefs that if any if them so much as dared give the king any food without her supervision then it'd be off with their heads, king be damned. The king had tried to reason with her, saying that he wasn't fat, and anyway, even if he was, it was kingly to have some meat on your bones. But hey, he wasn't fat anyway. What she thought was fat was actually well-toned muscle. The princess consort would have none of it though, and insisted that he be put on a well-regimented diet. "That's nuts!" cried the king, "do you know who I am? I'm the king! And who are you? Just some tart I elevated! How dare you tell me what to do?!" The king knew that it was a hopeless cause, and anyway, the lack of an interrobang wasn't helping matters. Still, at the end end of the day the king loved/feared his wife, or maybe it was the other way 'round, and he knew he was powerless in her hands. So he starved.
To be continued...