So in the land of dreams where the ghost of myself is staring at me with the same cold eyes I've known weeks, months, years before; I think to myself of the time I wondered and drunk caffeiene to get my juices flowing, I didn't think about the end of the joruney in the road I was walking alone by myself, the same road I've found myself again -- The story to tell is long, and is there enough time in the world to tell it right? With all the miscurves, misunderstandings bound to happen, all the right words and wrong times, places, evenings and abstract deep thought made simple enough for the dull? Where in this land of dreams and lucid-awakings I write and wonder, knowing I'm going to be a minority of a simple speck of dirt in our society and by then I knew straight right that a simple flick of the pencil wasn't enough; and don't you know that one story can change the world? Wandering, wandering from city to city in search of the holy contour of life, discovering what others have discovered and understood it in their own distorted views ain't no one could possibly see for themselves. When I look out ther ein the sun I envision whole cities I must've walked through in the past, capturing my mind and experiencing it in a way for people to see, whole crowds of people watching me close in hatred, desire, lust, affection, confusion, intriguinity, interest, and general "look at that!" mixed with moving by-on-by's. I think of myself wondering what I'm doing in this life and I just know my perception of reality changes from day to day, thinking about diggin' Jack Kerouac and old Neal Cassady; influenced by their ways, says, saids, and trying to feel the joy of living for myself I hadn't known - Contemplating the desire to make a name, any strong name I could hold myself proudly and hold it - Overcoming obstacles, experience, and being the old Wiseman from the West feeling tired, aching in his mind and ever melancholic with a warm smile in his heart, the gentle fire slightly burning in the wind as it dwindles; never meanin' no harm. No harm as the last bottom-of-the-monkey-hatch of dreams coming ture; a soul-mate of truth inside the old Aquarius dream-woman I've been fantasizing about holding, capturing [personality], I even think of my old friends I must've encountered years, months, days ago coming in and out of my life as the whisp of a train blows in the cool-warm night and the faint remembrance of trips all of my small get-together and ultimate truth and essence for understanding people, being understood, and joining of their minds for a good time within our blue-painted four-room walled house we call The Cardboard Box.