It is sometimes difficult to acknowledge the difference between a dreamer and a madman.
There exists a popular way of life here that stifles my creativity and deadens the endings of my nerves.
The reality of my summer excursion has not yet revealed itself entirely, but when tomorrow fails to arrive, and today is marching through another repeated encore, I will already be on my way.
On a predictably sleepless night I follow the need to conduct page after page of emotional sentiments, anticipated happenings, and life-changing experiments.
I have proved to myself that dedication is a learned skill; the want to be exceptional clearly wreaks havoc on my well-being, but normality offers nothing for me except boredom.