The dream, as I remember it, began with the sound of that tiny one-man band which caught my attention. It got louder and I looked out my bedroom window and the Grambling band turned the corner playing a Swingle Singers fav and the drum major strutted to the tune with flair and aplomb. I didn't really dream this because it's crackers to slip a rozzer the dropsy in snide. And besides, this is throw-away stuff to make waking up get started on the right foot. I'm locked on the version of recovery where I look like Bill Hurt and gargle the Beaver theme because I can. It's nostalgia = wishful thoughts and besides, this flag don't run. Treading softly with pred is like pushing laudenum through your teeth, realizing you can't get to heaven on the Frankford el and so you screwed the pooch a hundred times or so. Maybe clearing things up with the Master before your swan song is S.O.P. I love that gal, I love pondering on the meranda, I love slipping into the sheets knowing hours of closeness are about to be experienced and most of all, another day in paradise.