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Sitting around kidding myself has grown into a pastime and furthermore an art. I think maybe the only real satisfaction I'll ever draw, is that of my dreams. Day dreams, and thoughts of what could be. In every situation there is a play. The heaviest comes before seeing girls I care for, Genuinely care for, wild dreams , calm dreams. Slices of the evening to come, played out by two actors, identical to us, but for their position in time, and together. Then I turn, and bend myself over the keys, and perform a poem, a place I thought was made for escaping, but isn't. I thought it was a place I could create but instead its the world where I live. I've moved there, and this is all some vacation gone wrong. I live a wonderful life, but it isn't as perfect. 

It is not my intention to prove my poems are perfect things, and I hope you would ignore me if I ever did. They are perfect in the way that they are true, and there isn't any doubt mixed in. There is no question and no dreaming. A way of looking straight into things.

Then I turn away to drag on my beer. I lift it and a flash strikes me from outside my window. Immediately the flash tells me it's only a reflection and the swig settles. Im stuck dreaming again and my heart shakes around. Not the love heart but the fear heart. Also the curiosity heart. My fingertips are freezing from typing fast, and grabbing a cold can. The love heart shakes, and I care for her.

Caring  has always stricken me as a delicate and terrifying condition. It's so much a concept, and so little a real thing, its as delicate as an important fact to remember. There's no telling weather or not it will stay, or be worth it, but you hold on. People don't behave rationally, the people who say so are afraid, and have made horrible mistakes. The people who do not say so have probably made far worse mistakes. They are terrified, but have known the truth about at least one other human's soul. That human soul is fickle and changes. It isn't to be trusted but embraced. Cared for. And if you stop caring, you no longer know this human soul, because it is fickle, and again it changes.

Now its getting later and all the dreams of what's to come have blurred with alternate versions of themselves, conflicting, and now they are a ball of wire. Its circumference is so that the outer wires are 100% longer than the wires at the center of the mass. There is no reaching where the dream began, and now all thats left is to wait. The hopes that had sparked the trip were now extinguished. Often, and most of the time, love is one sided. Dreaming of this girl who loves you the second your first drinks are down. All smiles. No rattling your old mouth. It might be useless or it might be the way things actually are, in day dreams. Not the way things are going to become here on earth but the truth that only you know, and you know as pure. Everything- these thoughts and dreams, poems, they're nothing but you, or me. They are born inside what I know as real, and never leave. Related sometimes through writing or song, but the event, the actual dream is something that happened in you, its the past. It is as solid a past as any event in flesh, or in the air could be.

I come to seeing I'd be better off sitting at home dreaming, drinking. Singing. But none of that could compare to the dreams I would have if I got to see her eyes. Fuel for dream fire. Timber.

Waste vast hours, tired

unleashing thoughts without having to wish they were real.

Waste your life dreaming and forget everything important. 

Feed yourself with food, booze, other people's dreaming

And die

with your eyes open,

because dreams feel better

when you look toward the places in which

whey are based.