I lead a life so busy, so endlessly busy.
Between work, and writing, and people, and work, and music, and work, and work, and art, and work, and while dreaming...my sleepy arm extends forever outwards, far, far into the night comes the outstretched hand of the somnambulist grasping the air, reaching for Time.
The tears shed rhythmically with the breath of my lungs, absorbed by the spirit world, wiped away by the ebb and flow of dream after dream after dream.
Tonight, during a phone call I was urged to buy a new car, to replace my old, leaking, wreck of an embarrassing vehicle.
The writer in me was too tired to speak. He speaks now: "Money is my blood, forever dripping away. Why would I funnel my blood into a brand new car?"