There is nothing that I could possibly say into this screen at the moment, nothing of any real substance; this is my thought as I begin to type, as words begin to appear black inside a clean field of whiteness. Of course, I can fill a white box with black words, as if I ever had trouble doing this; the catch is that I wish to make these words something special, I wish them to be more than just words; but what more can they be? Well, on the more blessed nights, the words come to life, and become something that is even out of my own control, it is as though they take on a spirit of their own, and they take me for a ride, through landscapes of ideas, like they are some winged beast that flies over the world, and I am upon the back of the great creature, looking down, seeing all of the tiny houses of the villages, all the specks of human beings, way down there, I can barely see the colors of their hats, but there they all are, and there is the sun, when I look up into the sky, and I hear the deep rumbles of the great beast's breathing, and yes, the wind is in my hair, blowing all around, and peace is within that small, wonderful moment. Ahh, do you see? It caught me there for a second, it comes unexpectedly, like a strong gust of wind that would push down a lonely grey street, causing the many fallen leaves, now homeless, it would seem, to rise and spin and swirl, all around as you stare out the kitchen window, and for a moment you would simply hold your cup of coffee by the porcelain handle, and you would not even notice that your mouth hung open ever so slightly, and your thoughts would be no more than, wow... as images of beauty pass through us without a sound, wordless, void of idea, a simple, pure, blank, clear nothingness, perhaps that is peace... The sheer recognition of beauty, the involuntary moment of awe, when you forget that you are human, you forget about your hands, about your lips, about your hair, you forget about everything but for the sequence of event to which you are a witness; in these small moments, we are oblivious, free, we are without care, without worry; we positively become the beauty captured by our eyes. It comes into us, and it looks around, it sees that the curtains are drawn, and it pushes them back open, and light touches the dusty floor, and inside of us, a glow commences to melt the walls, and rest twists into our soul, and we float away, back into that old nothing, that lovely old familiar nothing, why, it is where I am now, even as these words still appear... And I believe, the point is, my dear friend, that the idea is secondary to the beauty that is natural and innate within these streams of conscious thought. It takes me where it will, and I am happily along for the ride; the words are my ticket to infinity, how funny that they are both my ticket and vehicle, allowing my passage and also whisking me away to the destinations of their choosing; I am only a passenger, though I do hold a sort of imaginary steering wheel, which I turn in my hands like a child at the park, pretending to sail on some make believe ocean, knowing with all my heart that I command the vessel, that I decide where it is that I go, easily forgetting the fact that I have never moved, and that the ocean below me is only wood chips and gravel rocks; but in my head, the wind is in my sails, and it is carrying me, off and away, into the horizon, I can just see everywhere, the waves speak to me as they lap upon the sides of my ship, I can understand them, and they are my companions. I suppose it must be said that I am just writing to music, the songs change, taking my ideas in different directions, thoughts are places, I find it dreadfully obvious, right now, I'm hearing Michael Jackson, Man in the Mirror, and it sounds yellow and flashy, and I love his voice, I'll never care about any word said against Michael Jackson, he felt music so intensely, and I can tell when I hear him sing. Into your heart I'll beat again, sweet like candy to my soul, I was thinking early today that music is freedom; I believe it to be true. Music may go wherever it wishes, yet good music only goes wherever it should, never where it should not. That is a beatiful thought. There are only certain notes that ring true in each key, and the perfect, beautiful music only dares to stray where it knows it will complement the rest of itself, for to hit wrong notes is only to take away from the grand illusion of beauty, perfection. Imagine if people were like music. Imagine that all of life is just one lovely song, each human is an instrument that contributes to the great arrangement, the ultimate orchestration of so many and so much, every notion, every action of positivity is a perfect harmony, every good deed is a soaring melody that would bring a tear to the eye of any observer with the smallest shred of a soul. However, each negative remark, each snide comment, each angry look, each lie fashioned and spread, each hateful word, each frightened insult, each ounce of fear and envy, each despicable act, all of these are horrible, cringe causing, grinding, discordant abberances from the intended beauty of the song. Think of how the world must sound today. All it makes me want to do is play as well as I can, and make the sound beautiful for any and all that may hear it from me. If I am music, then I will strive to be good music, music that I myself would love to hear if it were played back to me. Makes one ask the question, are our songs recorded? Is the one great song being listened to by some one?

There are a million melons, everywhere that you could see, a million, million melons, ten for you and ten for me. There are a billion balloons, floating way up in the sky, a billion, billion balloons, some are low and some are high. There are a thousand fountains spraying water in the air, a thousand, thousand fountains, the water's cold but no one cares. There are a hundred hungry hunters, with elks caught in their sights, a hundred, hundred, hungry hunters, they aim with all their might. And there are ten men, standing quietly in the sun, ten men, that's it, just ten, pondering what's now to be done. But just one gun rests still within the shade, a single, lonely gun, but one, whyever was it made?