Shakespeare told me, “Thoughts are winged.” I do vanish into the clouds rather quickly. My thoughts and dreams are a running winged machine; my feet are never truly on the ground. You’ll probably never have my full attention, and for that I am sorry. But I am what I am. I was born a dreamer. I was touched with the bizarre and washed in the unnatural. I need but witness a simply act of color to weave a tale of fantasy and adventure inside my head. I live an internal fairy tale. I hop planets like stones across a river. I’ll take flight through lightning, sail love songs like fingers along acoustic strings. Ask me for a story I’ll give you seventeen, tell me a story, and I shall fall into them forever, all the while composing enchantment endlessly. And, when I am still, quiet, and complacent, know that I’m racing far faster than the light from the sun. Mind catching fire and the boundaries burning down. My feet have flippers, my arms feathered and my eyes cosmically divided. Don’t ask me where I am, where I am going, or where I’ve been. Because I won’t know, for when you’ve traveled so far and been gone so long, you tend to loose your bearings. If I sometimes seem lost or not interested, the fault lies not upon you; it is just that when you start falling through something that has no beginning or end, you can’t do anything but fall. Wait awhile, you’re bound to cross my path again.

Forgive me, but I am bound or lover to no other, then the face and lips of imagination.