So here you are today, caught between a sunrise and a moonset, a plethora of moments, strung together in awe, in a morning rain, a lost refrain, a lute, a flute, a song of minstrels, a necromancer in the alleyways conjuring up a good times, sucking on the sublime, the whistle of a train, the ebb and flow of who you are, and who you will let yourself be in this menagerie.

            Guide your feelings over the glen, to the mountaintops where the wild, white goats walk rock, where the mushrooms are not eaten, they are taken, amidst the languid and bitter sweet spillover in a new coffee shop on the edge of a lake, in the town of the frozen dead guy, juxtaposed on non-descript seasonally mirth.

            Believe in the moments, the actions that take you from here to there, over the  cliff, to new worlds, to emotional-based living, high on the hog, high on a notion—a still life in a fruit basket, a germination of elation, as you get a running start, a leaping of you into the night, the delight, the blistering parts of a summer day, in a cave, in a cove, lost near the cliffs of Dana Point, where the sunsets are spectacular, masterpieces are stuck in neutral at the end of the day and seem not to go away.

            Be the song singing, the music from forgotten times, travel plans of zookeepers, gone to save the gorillas, pandas, the tigress, somewhere near Inverness where the loch ness monster sleeps at 50 feet below the waterlines.

            Everything in this life is yours to relish: So be the relish-er today, the man behind the scenes, the woman of substance, the dishonest politician gone good, the last straw in a series of platitudes that hold their own, remark well,  show well, in a one act black and white play, in the basement of the lit lab.

            You are the stranger in a large family, a wonderer.  You are in the awe and bewilderment that you actually let in through the back screen door, poetry with a zing, Hatches fire-roasted peppers (a different kind of zing) making your mouth quiver, making you exit before you get to the outskirts of El Paso, where those who live there, don’t even believe they live in Texas.

            Take your life, this day, this ensuing dream, and enjoy every nuance, every tiny moment that sneaks in when you are not looking, when the wind blows soft and cool, the autumn leaves pile up on the curb of another extravaganza.

            You are the life living, the world spinning, the wind, the skies, the sun, the moon, the stars, the cosmic drift, sandbagging hope, realizing your anonymity amongst the famous people zooming past Hollywood and Vine, on the beaches, on the “b” side of a vinyl record before most of you were born.

            Live this day as if it were sweet chocolate, a reckoning, the mist and mire of drawbridges let down, of women in white gowns, in the ball of your life.

For it is up to you to eliminate all that is warbling on the verge of complacency and dig in, begin, see it, be it, believe it, and become the sunrise that is torching up the horizon on up ahead.

You really have little else to do—hullabaloo.