Written dreams have been the life I live for long. They are written, they are dreams and I live in them. Reality a burden of poor and lack of entertainment. No lights, dances or sweet conversations. Everything is still as it couldn't evolve alone, not without some sign that never shines through. 
There's the treasury of the trip, flying trip to another continent. The unknown to be explored and
found like gentle native sound. There's the sitting down, not caring about moving cause the head
always moves if the soul's certain of. My ass hurts from this, sitting down I mean. Writing to be
a dream accompanying me on this trip, on this new life. Mix the two and forever blue? The
insatiable hunger of meaning of life through art. But life is or can be art, no? Confused. This writing
to have real light on a book, several books? Leave it alone till I find someone new, to hold me
and I not to feel captive on her arms. Or not an her but a where, a place where to rest my unforgettable nest. So young yet so feeling old. A lot to live, a lot to give and receive. Life's down but can be up if you're around. Just know how to flow. Stopping brings me down. Decisions are a burden for art. Dilemma.