Bought out to the middle of nowhere and sent flying somewhere on some sort of shot, darted, pasted and sold, subterranean homesick rocket.  Dylan didn’t approve, so he sent me the other way and I ran into a block of hammers or a hammer of blocks, either way it doesn’t matter.  What does matter is that nothing matters.  And the sound of nothing mattering is what makes everything matter.  It’s what make the silences in between the edges of the bed so silent and so pure and so daring and caressing.  That’s why I can say what I can say.  Or at least that’s what I think it is, it could be a million things, of that I’m sure.  But if I believe in no definite, how can I be sure of that?  I can not even say that I know nothing.  Because saying I know nothing, means I know something.  And stating that as a definite.  Maybe that’s the point.  Maybe I know everything.  And everything I have seen is everything.  And nothing is more.  But that’s too simple.  It’s too anachronistic, it’s too cynical, too pessimistic and too run of the mill.  Easier to be a clever pessimist than anything else.  And that’s why the sunset I see only exists through the curtain, through the window, over the trees, sparkling the mountains.  Until the fire consumes and the curtains and the windows call for me to send them to an existence of sharp grains, and that’s all there is.  The idea of me becoming sunshine. Until it consumes me.  Until I become sunshine.