I am waiting for the break between my repose and the crash into light.
Grinding the news of the day across the wires in my ears is a bear trap unsprung.
The keys to the Republic are lost in couch cushions and the mob is lynching the gnomes that hid them while they were deep in prayer kneeling to Fox News.
Without any ideas I am unburdened, a muppet with pharmacological needs.
In a dream about Francing, the top of my head was sheared off in a plane crash that was my morning wake up, how do you do.
Waking eludes me. The warm scents of revolution are in the air.