I wonder, I wonder, I wonder. How hard we work to gain entry to that sacred place, to enter inside and float away, around in circles. With a smile. This is what I would wonder and I do it to myself. I always do and will do it to myself. Injecting the memories, everything that is mine, yours, his, hers, and everyone I never met, even people who have been very, very dead. I read about them, and get a little joy with the knowledge that they never knew me, but far submerged inside myself it breaks my structure. We all die some day but at this time, during this life, I’ll be the protector of mother’s lost boys, when really I hunger to be the lover. I am starved, severely starved. My sacred place, where souls swim in and out of and soak up the sun light, except for myself, where I clamor to any solid frame that comes along with a silent, dripping screech. I am left somewhat alone with my rivers, my little haunted place, my ghosts. Left with them who whisper and I wonder…I wonder…I wonder…the chilling nature of extravagance and the proof of compassion, what does it feel like to be the stuff dreams are made of, what about riding on stars, the power of malicious atonement, permanent nostalgia, and exchanging urgency to serenity … ever still I wonder…what does this make of me?