I was walking through 1010 with the old Disney song from Pinnochio in my head.
Got no strings to hold me down.
But it wasn't true. I was just telling myself that. I was really hemmed-up like Gulliver in the old Johnathan Swift tale, tied-down tightly where I had not a move to make.
I play a little chess. I like to have mobility. I always play my opponent, reading his strategy first, then building off that. I am like the water. Unstable. Take my queen; I keep coming.
When darkness turns to light...
An old love interest was the author of my torment, from my humble perspective. There was so much hinted and hidden and whispered, but not a lot said outright. "Don't tell him." "Don't give it away."
Beset and pulled at. And I ask of Pearson, what holds a man together while at the same time pulling him apart? His dreams are like a fire that he has to keep contained, lest he destroy his life and forsake his future. Living in a dream doesn't make it real. It rather mortifies your life, ruining your effectiveness.
Then early one morning, I saw the manager's ass jangling and I started singing lets get it on, to myself, in the cool morning. I started at "we are all.... sensitive people... with so MUCH to give."
I'm going to make a dream graveyard and call it a Japanese rock garden so no one knows what it really is. How we give up on dreams, and it hurts. It hurts. George Hurst shot by one of Al Swearingen's whores, who marched it, gun drawn, shirt down, boobies exposed so no one would notice her face in detail, and plugged him but good.
But it wasn't a kill shot. Just enough to hurt. Like a dream dying. A falling star. A meteor making one hell of a light show through the atmosphere over the night time world, before smacking finally into the ground.