Songs weave in and out and between heads that bob along or with some other far away dream
thats sits squarely out of reach. I bob along I am half here and half elsewhere, making me ineffective and strained. So as they define and converse I sneak away to where the music doesn't sink between but stands center. Where words command beauty, elequently, elegantly...with grace. This living that I make, I fear, is making me.
In box gaining speed...outbox growing lonely. Something is dimming and sadly I don't even remember what it is. Tragic acceptance, money pulls me along and I have become it's lapdog, begging for a treat.

I
Have
to
Escap
e
Before
its
too
l
a
t
e
.