A parking lot, a smoke, and the pleasure of being alone

3:30 am, I'm somewhere the closest thing to diversity is a girl with no eyebrows and 13 toes(Well 9 after the incident with the firecracker). Its been a day and though I am weary, rest will not come to my dreamer's soul. I change the channels only to find the age old conclusion that nothing is on. I long for my guitar and a passing damsel displaying her distress to violate with my selfish fancies. There is only the slightest hint of life in this sleeping vision of a ghost town. That being the rose vines growing on the graves to your left. Here in the frigid inferno, I sense neither Joy nor Sorrow and I can not help but weep in shame. This is the truth about paradise, Even at the height of its glory it has only been mediocre. The artist in me, tells me this is beautiful, The visionary screams, this is pathetic. I myself, Call this lost. Potential served to its fullest, only to amount to nothing. I'd almost rather see failure, than watch this placid daydream unfold. Perhaps it is only the lack of success of the dream, that makes it worth dreaming.