I awoke in my own bed and my skin felt how good it was to be there. Warm and under my own covers in that semblance of a place that still felt like home. Opportunity. That fleeting thing that I have always wished for. Something that rushes back under the bed out of reach like a lost slipper. How I both love and abhor this double headed hydra. If I shake the dice, will I crap out? How can I afford to lose this little piece of sanity that brings me some small modicum of comfort? In too man ways this risk of promise courses through my blood to gives me aires. Sparks a fire in that long-cold iron bellied boiler of desire to reach out and extend myself as far ahead as my own vainglorious imagination. What am I capable of? And how far can I still take it before it all collapses? Insomnia. It all works out grandly in the third person. “J’al fait un sauté de foi“. A leap of faith where the metaphysics of my personality find me dragging upon an imaginary canyon a thousand feet below in the projected ether. The searchlights placed outside the theater had been requisitioned without any reconnoitering and their beams intensely scanned the white ceramic tile of the entrance underground in the old Metro station. All fantasies find their life mere inches above dreams.
The Merest Pretext of Living