Sometimes the heart cries for an unforgettable dream that was a moment, a day, week, month, year, years, long lingering in the past. He cries for it and he wants it back. For the heart time is irrelevant. Though the mind now knows that time goes, falling into past, never dying in general conquest of the present. It's sad and brings down a mind ready for an unfolding day, each day. Melancholy is a dead bird that still sings, no matter how much you're tired of knowing her dead wings. Discipline and rational thought resolve this by dissecting it into natural stream of art. Not having the means to create you're fated to go with it, harshly and crude, soon rotten by floating time. But the mind that doesn't know how to create knows better how to forget. Ways and means, just different ways and means... Long going past you were to inspire me to have no fear for the bright present to see. You brought something for I to see and it's kind of a blasphemy for the past to be here, just and so, on the present, all over again. Always learning and not running away I must for life is the great teacher and I'm a great learner boy. Have to catch the train now or soon? Tell me right mama, I'm going anyway.