The worst feeling ever is to chase inspirations' scent. It lives around corners in the wind. Ripping out taste buds as time skips away from you. No drug guides you as well as a muse. The beautiful and pure ecstasy of falling in love with the space between space is deeply amazing.
When I was a kiddo, I was very small. I would see something and with stubbornness, I would climb every chair and cabinet to get to put my fingers on it. I don't know that feeling anymore. Does that make me a fraud in some way? Or am I stabbing at the man reflecting at me from a timeline of a man who is also 38 but has never existed but in my mind? Yes to both maybe? I just don't know. Maybe Whiskey knows.
I am the shark and the boat.
I think the answer for both of me has to be " you are in the same ocean."
