Horehounds and The Baskervilles

       Have you ever thought that everything is a figment of your imagination?  Your bloodhound, your calico cat, your goldfish the size of a halibut, your seven year old Colorado kid, were all thoughts placed in the lap of luxury, the partitions in your mind, and have come out a gingerbread house, a clause in the contract between you and God, you and the world, the state of the union between you and Madame Butterfly, the lost boys and four-wheel toys and the state of your health?

            You create what you anticipate: The red, white and blue flying over a Singapore lady who moved here after a stint in Dubai and loves America.

            Your life is not mostly made up, it is all made up from a snapshot in your head, to a clear picture of what your life looks like right now, what it will look like when it is done, to Christmas candy, horehounds in a crystal bowl, to the car you will drive in 10 years through Moab in a blizzard. 

You invent your next move.  Move with care.  Move mountains.  Move with delight—despite what the myopic minds say are the rules of the day.

Clamor for more, for a sanguine sunset, a star-studded performance, a Rolls-Royce, a roll in the hay, as you, yourself, and your changeling mind rolls out the red carpet onto the yellow brick road, and it all ends up next to a miracle, where the oracles and the thieves gamble for your clothes.

            Slam-dunk your destiny today.