If the rumors are true? If the mountain tops touch the horizon? If the clouds fall asleep and don't just fade away? There will be another tomorrow another day unlike any before or any to come again.

The uniqueness of creation, the mystery of dawn humbles man. The vastness of glory! His place compared to the sun all measured between the hours before the moon replaces the ball of fire, before the stars clothe the sky, before light no longer guides.

Is there a script for his days? Aimlessly, hopelessly, homeless-ly, helplessly drifting from shore to shore. The clues come in puzzles, the answers revelations. But then again who is man when compared to the sun?

When the room is closing in, the air is tight and time is short you must lift the lid, step outside the box and stretch.

The evening clouds played nest to a moon almost in full bloom. Formally dressed, the night unfolded itself and emerged at the feet of the stars.

Costumes can't hide humiliation. This garment hangs like a noose cutting the wind from the pipes rendering the lungs useless. It's hard to escape and hide behind a large bush or fall through a convenient hole. The worse is we know we are making complete fools of ourselves and the regret we will feel later will not be worth the process--yet we continue. As if writing the ending to a horror film for second rate actors. Those out of work posing as waiters in real life.

There is something that will make a fool out of me every time. Actions I know will turn and haunt me from that moment on--but still I chase after it. Searching like the beggars ringing the door bell--only they have dressed for the occasion.