"Living in dreams of yesterday, I wake up with tears in my eyes. Though I cry, I clear my face, and go my separate way. I know true, the story of two. The parallel lines that haven't a clue; that some day not long from now, shall both turn blue. Spring turns to summer, and summer into fall, and somewhere, right around there, they'll be together at last; up against a wall. The mind goes sour, his face turning dour, the locking and clicking counting down the hours; the one who will remind them of just who's in power. Snapping shut before cracking open, he practices his technique, and prays; amen. Hands deftly grasping, as his fingers keep clasping around the handle, the room filled with gasping. He has finally perfected his skill, moving steadfast, opening and closing until the last. He runs for it, and lunges at the lines; he catches them both, and intertwines. Nonsensical. Reprehensible. Simply not caring what they call horrible; he goes his own way, and walks his own street, to the used-to-be, walking to a beat. One only he can hear, one that guides his soul; playing a lyre 'stead of raking coal." (Twenty-one Times Around the Sun) - M. S.