I am a prisoner of my dreams.
By now the jig is up. The game is over, les jeux sont faits, the die is cast, the Jews are feet. The bouncers are mopping up, house lights are on after the show. Midnight is history and the Governor’s letter never came. It’s time to move along, there’s nothing to see here.
And yet I still dream that the phone will ring, and you will be on it. “Dude,” you say. “Dude. What the fuck? What the fuck was I thinking? How could I say no to you?”