There is a day for most, or at least too many, where all the dreaming dies. How sad, to sleep, and wake, only to sleep again, with nothing in between. I remember when each and every day, I thought the next, might be better. No more, I'll die where I last sit there's nowhere else to go. Too old to battle too old to even make the effort. I wish I'd seen it coming. Prepared for it, some how, some way. But no, and so, I sit, in an empty room, lie in an empty bed. Goodbye's were said, but not acknowledged, as all my dreams walked away.