At home. Far away.

Sitting on an ottoman (foot stool). Shirtless.

I saw a man bare his soul tonight, with a raspy voice that didn't fit his face. Simple was the theme. Soul searching was the plot. 38 and in love only twice. So much to learn, too much to learn.

I heard a man died from a shot to the chest. He had been traveling, discovering and contributing to his killers. They say the villians, the Vandels were drugged: high on cocain. He died soon after. The thoughts in those last moments are secrets forever.

But these are really words for you... i can't sleep. i can't see. i can't make it happen, bring it to fruition. Whatever "it" is.

From the land of countless four-leaved clovers, there: terra is dusty and brown. The hills have only shrubs and scrub, whence the fogs pour down. Sun is constantly watching, reminding you of your space. The moon's waxing and waning, in gentle winds of grace.

The horns are relentlessly reminding, morning in cool air. Apollo's towing a glowing crown, burning images of there.
I suppose it is rather pointless, ignoring all extremes. Yet slight of logic, happy of heart, I replay it in my dreams.