For it is but a divine awakening in an utterly surreal sense. Linings of reams of pages of books awfully dense . Only to assuage ones subconscious from the pendeleum and pit in which we call being atop a fence. Dearly so one must come to terms as they are alligned in such a fastidious row. The task at hand we shall commence, and come to simply know. To plant your dreams and slumber as they grow.

Flown from Spain just yesterday flowers upon a window sill. Falling along the window pane , a downpour of blissful rain. Looking past alongside what has to remain, lay the flowers of a long forgotten name.

Fallen from grace , and to the ground dearly laid. Debtor unknown, to a service paid. Wearly departed and unvisited , underneath a night stark with nothing in it. Hopelessly bound and full of regret, behind a thousand yard stare a prisoner once was set. Flying alone from this earthly plane , leaving sincerely with no pain.

Drawling to a jaunty swing number, down on bourbon street. People everywhere at any rate , of and at all times. The night aglow with neon signs of every angle. Trepidantly set upon Gatsby like quality of novelty. Trendsetting a fictitious wonderment for all to enjoy with anticipating excitement.