You tell me how you float in your dreams, falling asleep at the foot of other dreamers, and how you leave, tip-toed, back to your own world.  You tell me how your life isn’t real – how it can’t be – not yet. You’re twenty three years old, armed with a short haircut and a ukulele, plans of the west coast. You wonder when your life will begin. You tell me about the way you yearn. How you crave the real. Harsh wind against cheek, passion enveloping your nerves until you can feel your body explode with anticipation. You are moonstruck, dizzy with lust of reality, delirious with the call of dreams. Too impatient to wait, too forgetful to begin. But one day, you will wake up to the water poured over your head that clears your eyes. And you will take a step and the sun will be rising and you will realize that you are ready to sing again.