Is there any flesh for these for these tangible dreams?  Or is the hope to touch just a pointless trip?  If we were meant to fly, we would have been given wings.  So, why were we given dreams? 

Oh nevermind. 

Caffeine is zapping out all the remnants of dream.  Light breaks on yonder rooftop.  Some prick is happy somewhere getting off; I'm glad I don't know where.  Thank u crankiness, for being there when nothing else is.  For being dependable, something I can always count on when it seems I can never count on myself.  Thank u something, for being somewhere, always. 

Nevermind. 

This room is like a morgue.  I like it cold, keeps something at bay, keeps it dormant, a consumptive rapture where I catch myself wasting life like water, pouring it down, dumping it out, then collapsing like a madman and trying to drink sand.  Under sixty degrees I can stay clear.  Conscious.  Aware.  But sensible?  I doubt it.  This tedious babbling, this caffeinated loop—this is proof, wouldn't you say?  What do you mean, what do I mean?  Nevermind.  It doesn't matter. 

Do something, man!  Anything!  Get a pulse, a beat, a rhythm.  Get a heart, or at least a drum.  Cry, or at least act like you do.  Pretend to laugh, especially when you can't.  Remember when you were young?  Everything was fascinating, everything magic.  Pretend to be like that again.  Make believe the world is the world, and you are not. 

Forget it.  Pass me the coffee.