I have this constant dream I shouldn't be where I am. Instead I should be on the road, wandering about with a day pack slung over each shoulder. One holds my imagination, the other words I own. When something strikes me as interesting I match the contents of the two and that becomes my tale.
What am I doing here besides living on a slow burning debt and the empty fumes of hope?
Time to go? Time to carry my mind and my words and go wherever my boot heels take me?