I feel terribly possessive about my dreams and hopes. If you could just hear me say “dreams and hopes”: I say it sneakily under my breath; in the morning I blow it into the moist grass; I whistle it in the shower, and I watch it float down the drain with the dirt of last night. The dreams and hopes themselves, they’re not mine. I stole them. I copied them out of the leather bound book filled by a sightless monk with millions of indecipherable signs. I can’t understand them. I repeat them like an alien chant. I share them readily with others hoping for access to the truth. My homeopath tells me to drink large amounts of water to flush out the toxins. She says to massage my skin with Amber oil. She recommends vitamins. But what if my dreams and hopes are the poison? My horror scope says time is slipping away. Sometimes one simply must let it happen. While I wait, I’m going to produce abundant yellow flowers, and I’m going to grow naturally throughout much of the world, without regard for the laws of physics, which have impeded me long enough. Also watched the San Diego fireworks malfunction: it was short but it made the people happy anyway. Not everything can go according to plan. And sometimes when it doesn’t, it’s even better that way.
[#67/1000][Image: San Diego Fireworks]
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