Enough tilting at windmills. In the quiet of the night, when the fires cool and tongues still, one can listen.
Jonathon’s For a Dancer.
No further comment. Go read.
Awake to understand you are not dreaming
It is not seaming just to be this way
Dying men draw numbers in the air
Dream to conquer little bits of time
Scuffle with the crowd to get their share
And fall behind their little bits of time.
Colors of the Sun