I can guarantee the skepticism blooming from the tips of my fingers with the incredulity of my cloudy eyeballs. Last night I fell asleep with hops – or was it two days ago? – I fell hard and landed on my innocence. My legs have been moving for some time, and my face I bury in shame, always on a treadmill of increasing possibility.
Doctor, doctor, where is the shaman or the herbalist or the spiritualist that can snap me out of this black hole of relativity.
I’ll be sleep walking just to wait for the Titanic to sink the brick wall of time, that impenetrable (repeat: impenetrable) obstacle.
Say dreamer, you dreamt of these words, dreamer you might have even requested them, dreamer.
For now it is all long man and the super eagle.
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