Sitting here upon a wooden chair, and seeing the filtered sunlight coming in as I sit with my back to the wall again. Looking up and seeing myself surrounded by both shelves and stacks of books, and feeling these tired eyes of mine renewed by this comforting sight here. It's like seeing all of my old friends gathered here with me in one room. And feeling that double dose of that silver bullet caffeine kicking in. As I look around, I see all of those old friends and familiar names, with literature near me: Edgar Allen Poe, Ray Bradbury, Harlan Ellison, Mark Twain, Ernest Hemingway, Rudyard Kipling, Bob Dylan, W.B. Yeats, H.G. Wells, and on. I am sitting here surrounded by the authors and their stories, dreams, fears, hopes, and visions, and is making me think if I might make a contribution and join them all here as I sit and look.

I may not be worthy or able to join them, but at least I have unraveled that knot that these words form inside of me. And know that the library of Morpheus, the dream lord we have all contributed to through our dreams and it is made up of books and volumes that all of us have written on his shelves. Written by each one of us through our thoughts and dreams and are of all subjects, thought up by each one of us when in traffic, on a train, or walking, or sleeping.

So as the effect of that double silver bullet's chemicals kick in, I know too that most of us are like each of these volumes that sit here, and that each one of us is a story that's sitting here waiting to be either bought or read. I also know too, that most would probably be read from the back to the front, in an effort to see if Epilogues, Bibliographies, or my back pages would say something different from what has already been seen or read.

We as people tend to think we are all different and separate. But we are all basically the same no matter how diverse by the order of creation, and most of our lives are induced as a narrative of subjective desire(s), with most feeling on the inside a feeling of separateness and feelings of being alone. Yet, we are all actually connected and are a part of everything.

Tomorrow is a long time away at times, and today seems like an endless highway that goes there, with the nights being able to stretch out like blades or be full of crooked winding trails. And I try making my way through them all the best way that I can as I make the rounds. With having seen and met a lot of people and most of the faces blur and get filed away. With a lot being like these volumes sitting on the stacks and shelves around me here. So where do we start reading as we take all play by play? As you can read some of what you're looking for in the eyes, and feel some of what's hidden in those back pages by the way some things are shown, for all that is seen is not truly known, and we can't be certain of anything.

Well it seems there are too many people, and trying to please them all is just too hard to do, and my head's full of questions and I'm looking for some answers. So my hat is in my hand and I'm walking on down the line here.

Copyright January 2004: Timberwolf International LTD.