I live in a two-story town home that has furrows in the tile and pockmarks on the walls. The lights are few and far between, if I am lucky, I am in a room with more than one bulb. All the switches have dimmers, but with the whispers of my neighbors poking me from all sides, even the noon day sun is reluctant to get involved. I nap until the creek of the floorboards reminds me that dreams do not end, they merely stretch out… like cracks on a rubber band. I heard about an older man who fondly remembered the big game of his youth. I certainly understand the application, but am far from being impressed. The contours of the air are minefields adorning a glowing shore. Otherwise, each step would be synonymous with floating. Hatchlings of passing moods, separating their taste from the fading, pallid fuzz, this is the birthplace of work. Sometimes the third generation of leftovers is even sweeter than the fresh possibilities of a rescue; thankfully, the aging funk reminds me that there are lions everywhere.