Tall glass towers; on mountains of golden lakes.
An island of ten million dreams; blinded by the lights
of life. Heaven is a time like no other, as nothing has
an end. But all of it's residents have met their end.

Phased by the breath of tens of labours; the works of my
hands. I built glass memories, so fragile of remembering a
tragic past. All that is wasted; wasting away in thoughts.
****** as my hairs in the morning. Some on my neck, of
having their rest on my pillowcases.

A heavy throat, and it's husky voice. Mmh mmh; clearing it
to speak into a day. This morning is a timeless piece of whisky;
strong as the first swallow of belief.

Do I...

believe of any goodness ahead of me for today? A chance of better wealth to add some weight to a wallet? Meeting my potential love; as they're waiting out there?

But when, and how far are all of these things?

Who are the fools to know; all of the wisdom of ancestors
of where they should go? My forefathers have been at this place before. I do suppose; that I am progresses living words.

Onwards, forward, towards, heading, advances, going to
the places of what progress asks of me to go.