On a blanket in the sun I drift far and wide. On this magic carpet of mine, I write my words as if they were the very essence of life itself. Perhaps one day I’ll write books that to some are considered magical. Perhaps the pages will pull them in, like a lasso around the moon gathered for that special someone who can make a heart beat in the most unusual of ways. Wiping my face with a towel, I take a cold can of cherry Coke from my satchel and down it in one gulp. The sky is blue with an odd wisp of cloud thrown in for good measure. I’m at one with nature and nature’s at one with me, and although there will come a time when my bones will be the only thing that’s left, for now at least, it feels as if there’s a secret language slowly revealing itself, and the longer I spend beneath the sky and walk among the trees, the closer I come to understanding this language that speaks to my soul in a way nothing else has ever done. If I can master this language, and if I can write words with a magic heart, then people will see I have a heart of my own, and that I’m someone worth loving after all. Lighting a cigarette, I blink the sweat from my eyes. The world dissolves then comes back again. The smoke burns my lungs, and with the sun beating down on my bare chest, my body feels alive and dead at the same time. I’m on the outside, and yet I exist in the breeze, and in the dreams of others just like me. Those sweet, dangerous dreams that dance around my head like stars in a cartoon my infant self once consumed so feverishly.