The night mixes sluggishly with the morning light and produces a slight kind of greyness,
an Autumnal dayness, a colour which fights with my eyes.
In the process everything blue eventually dies and we become one with the seasons.

The heaviness cloaks me
reaches down inside and
chokes me,
makes a mockery,a
laughing stock of me,and
that's how heavy the
heaviness can be.

At the end when we wend our way to wherever it is they say we go,
I think
I'll ,
throw up.

Chances are the
explorer will not
find what
he or she
seeks
but will discover
something
far more
valuable.

In the midst of everything
all we are,
are what we bring
to the table.

When I truly live
I die.
I guess
that's why I cry
when I'm happy.

We make more of nothing
than we make
of everything.

One summer I'll wake and it really will be today,
but for now
the raindrops make such a pretty noise
so
I'll lay here awhile and listen to their music.

How long did it take to build Rome?

If we could reinvent ourselves
to prevent ourselves
from going down the same road,
would we do it?

Is it not the journey we make
that makes us who we become?

and I wonder,
do we only become
when we've gone?

Friends who went before their time,
friends of mine and I'm still here
hanging on,
wondering to myself how long
before, I too, am gone,

but
if we are to become the memories
then we shall live forever in that place
where time stands still.