I once felt a desire to write, and it was as if my hands could not keep up with the words in my head, which seemed to be jumbled all together, a incomplete picture, putting itself together like a puzzle. Pieces assembling into a preset order, eyes squinting looking for familiarity in the rebuilding of something new, off of the scraps of something old. The aroma of coffee, and the sound of Jazz, can take you to a since of romance or politics. Looking down dark corridors or down the path of a forest, will bring out the mystery in any human being. The conversation, that is clearly one sided, lovers talk about their love expectations, all the while giving their lover the side eye. In this don’t let them see you cry in this world, you better keep a dry eye. Everyone full of disguises like they raided the wardrobes of their favorite characters, and drama has no logic. That is why everyone watches it, emotions as it destroys the dignity of it’s next victim, over run by circumstance, with a last straw mentality, a burst of heat, now no one is speaking. Is this the things we love, are we really dreaming of a world, were reality cuts deeper then fiction, but fictitious facts are digested daily, even the eye of the photographer criticizes it’s victims, screw everything else, for that good light, don’t let them see the downside.