(written drunk)

I rather turn into a bouquet of flowers then a basket of roses...

If that means anything to you then do what ever you will do.

Smiley.

Playing off of Shakespeare seems to be the case...

I don't know you.
You don't know me.

"I" Which I often said in life.

I’m in awe that I can not write fast enough for me to ask a question within myself, but on my thoughts they will be.

I'm just a remembrance of me that I'm trying to describe at a later time, but isn't that how it feels all the time?

Living in a moment just so later we can watch that moment unwind.

I wonder, when will time look me up?

Is it just inside of a thought--just within this dream; my own mind?

Reality plays coy when it must and a wild current when it wills itself to be.

But still this is real.

Looking above the fences of offences to try to see the luscious garden on the other side; the mind that gets filtered through the soul so as to put circumstances to the side and say what "I" really mean.

I'm me and I know what I mean and as I write me to know me I become me to explain it to me, and of me, to get to the meaning of what it truly means to be an I.