Nah….

Said Messybear to his imagination (with respects to Stephen Sondheim),

Isn't it rich?  Aren't we a pair?  Me here at last on the ground,  You in mid-air.  Send in the clowns.

Isn't it bliss?  Don't you approve?  One who keeps tearing around,  One who can't move.  Where are the clowns?
Send in the clowns.

Just when I'd stopped opening doors,  Finally knowing the one that I wanted was yours,  Making my entrance again with my usual flair,  Sure of my lines,  No one is there.

Don't you love farce?  My fault I fear.  I thought that you'd want what I want.  Sorry, my dear.  But where are the clowns?  Quick, send in the clowns.  Don't bother, they're here.

Isn't it rich?  Isn't it queer,  Losing my timing this late  In my career?  And where are the clowns?  There ought to be clowns.  Well, maybe next year.

Isn’t it rich … how just about anything illogical can be imagined into just about anything else ..if the person doing the imagining is willing to ignore his own tendency to fantasize?