Sitting here.  Right here amidst the aura of a tattered self who still dares to love.  Laying here playing dear notes above a whisper and below a hum that resonate with one but touch upon many.  Simply and not so purely enduring.  Fan is silent and motionless with a devotionless forecast for the evening.  How many trances are warded off by music and red wine. These things I dream of feel ever so far removed, but aren’t.  Creating inspiration and inspiring creativity with a proclivity for madness and a taste for anything that cures the hiccups.  Curtains and blinds folded back reveal the temptations to be hollow and the lies to be transparent.  Am I?  Can the driver be reached before it is too late?  These things and more construct the ramblings of a bearded man who longs to make a mark without maker’s mark, or at least not because of it.  My surprise is that there aren’t more people talking to themselves in parks, and swooning by darkened windows. Its a life, and it happens to be beautiful whether I choose to accept it or not.