Most people read the newspaper while they walk to work. Just to be informed. To have facts - not fiction - to converse about. Walking amongst graffiti embedded concrete walls that lead no navigation. Walking, running. Reading the newspaper. To be informed. I find myself a little dry-hearted. Enrichment ceases. The life of a faceless business man proceeds. Coffee stains on your paperwork must get old, old man. Maybe set two feet to the left and you'll feel some spontaneity.

I can't even recognize what comes out of my fingertips
When you grab the pencil and make me follow. Babbling nonsense
about conceptual thought. My thoughts are thoughts just the same as yours.
How can I show you my own interpretations when you just impose on me
the thoughts that burrow in a mind not mine.
I am made of the same potential, the same matter.
But, the garden doesn't grow if you never start.
You don't know the possibilities of my mind, my hands, my lines.
Excuse me, dictator. I need a little space, a little space for my thoughts.
A free blank piece of paper that has nothing but my own.

Whats the feeling that borrows in my soul when I see the glitter of southern cotton littering the highway. Off the shoulders, it glimmers. From window to window, patches of earth with radiant colors gleam as my grandmothers quilt that keeps me warm at night. We can't deny our roots - baby. We are this. Our homey connections to the southern land. With music playing in my ears, in my own script - my shadow races before me to discover the opportunities. To discover the possibilities. To experience before I do. The colors of this earth, the season enriches me. Tires me. The rest awaits. This is the final fanfare before hibernation. Mother nature has to break too, Laura. She's gotta sleep, so she can show us her infinite beauty. All of that damn potential. Then, the cycle starts all over again.

The sun never sleeps.