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[StayingPower]

It doesn't take a wayfarer to know his or her waywardness. You can see it in their actions, their life, like the foreign locals hanging out at a nearby vendor, sipping cheap beer, excusing themselves to piss along the river, knowing the stream leads somewhere but then again, nowhere.

But here, like it's the end of the unknown, without a loan, borrowing time, were it to be loaned. And I, sit among the slippery streets, not wanting to go home, the quake of reawakening, stoned.

Bob Rock and 'A Bed of Roses', is a song I've sung, wanting to groan. Who here knows their way? Is there a way? Do you know a room with lights and quilts and softer moans? Is there love outside of looking at a concrete wall deciphering invisible directions?