  So you appear on the corner of Reality and Dreaming,  with no particular direction in mind,  except heading from this place abandon,  leaving all your ties on the ground,  all your soul- crushing elements on the grass,
 the trite,  deer- shitted grass where the color scheme is all wrong.  It looks monumental;  the grass.  Something distinguishable there,
 indistinguishable here.  Contradictory patterns,  of course,  resembling an evoking memory from far off in the cosmos.  Where the light of your eyes shines but once,  and is lost forever.
 Forever seems too vast,  and the present to unimportant,  and all the while your thoughts run down from your ears like a trickle of some leaky faucet in a dank basement.  Dripping,  dripping,  dripping.
 Then Collecting on the floor below your head.  Drip,  drip,  drip.  The puddle contains many things,  many irrational things,
 many undesirable things,  like the insides of a milk carton or an orange peel from the days of yore,  the days before yore,  the days when the rain was warm,  the snow was cold,  the wind was blowing south,
 and there was never a threat of either on a sunny day,  when the sun’ s rays were peaking,  and the smell of those fine huckleberries beckons you back,  far into the recesses of time,  back when 5 was your age,
 not your raison d’ etre.  But,  oh well,  that is life now,  with it’
s wide plateaus,  steep valleys,  thatched- roof houses,  and cozy fireplaces.  Smelling like some pipe.
 Some pipe,  some pipe,  some glorious,  glorious wide- brimmed basin filled with the jovial root of earth,  twisted bracken like a gnarled tree up on a brazen,
 wind- racked hill,  sloping silently upwards to meet the mass of the sky that lies just above it.  In that sky lies the hopes of it all,  the infinitesimal boundaries of sanctity and unity,  and brotherhood,
 and peace,  and justice.  Wherever you go,  wherever you are,  you are bound,  intrinsically,
 to that essential part of the sky,  the sky so beautiful,  so savagely undetermined that it must be from somewhere else,  some long,  and beautiful world,  where people are always dreaming and shining,
 the sun is always high and warm,  the breeze is always cool,  the water is always cold,  the women are always beautiful,  the music is always kind,  the smell is always home,
 the life you lead is never normal,  and the life you want to lead is always possible,  and never will you retreat from your position on thing’ s of this earth,  such as the color of the trees and the feelings of a wind on your face.  And as you stare atop a peak,
 looking west towards the towering peaks of sustenance and beauty,  you remember that Life is Beautiful,  and beauty abounds,  and you remember that Life is Good,  and that Everything WILL Be All Right,  and you descend back into the heartless world below you.
 Where there is no soul,  no majesty,  just an emptiness and the rumble of cars,  trucks,  and buses,  and a train whistle blowing.
 Wherever you feel the most complete isn’ t around you,  and there is never going to be another feeling like it.  From the far off distant hills you feel that cool breeze,  feel that beautiful woman,  smell that air,
 taste that cool,  crisp water,  and hear that beautiful music.  Aaah,  what its like to be home.  I wrote this once,
 in May,  because i was the happiest i've ever been then,  and i wished to express my happiness in some way.  i owe it all to the life sport,  grateful dead and phish music,  and this really special girl i'll just call katie.
 It's alright,  'cause I love you.  And that's not gonna change.  Run me round,  make me hurt again and again.  But I'll still write you love songs Written in the letters of your name.
 And brave the storm to come,  For it surely looks like rain.  I only want to hold you.  I don't want to tie you down.  Or fence you in the lines I might have drawn.  It's just that I've gotten used to Havin' you around.
 My landscape would be empty If you were gone.  Looks Like Rain written by Robert Hunter Expressing my feelings like no other man can 
