When we think we have it all, we don’t. You wouldn’t catch me saying it but there isn’t a thing called, perfect; no, perfect is not that perfect or cracked up to be. It is convoluted. It makes the perfect story, the best headline for the billboard charts but it is incomplete, a semicolon on a luggage of many Amens.
If I only knew tomorrow, I would write it in a big piece of paper, color it’s boarder with fortress surroundings smelling like a lavender. It would be full of sacred words and dedicated to Mrs Butterfly. It would describe the lessons of yesterday and telltales of today and images of tomorrow on a thin piece of paper stuck in the library of lessons. But I don’t know tomorrow. I just envision it to be the food in my refrigerator, biscuits in my cantina, paper flowers in my corridor of wonders, the big pendulant on the street corner dance, a glass of water on my bedside table inside the prepaid package yet to be delivered.