No one needs Morpheus. Twitchy-eyed little bastard that he is, lithe-limb, smooth-talking sonofabitch. Where does he get off thinking he can play with checkers with my brain on a nightly basis throwing in chess pieces now and again? Some practical joke. I lay here listening to the gunshots across the valley missing the rain thinking there are fallow times but what if this is famine? what if the seeds of stories are all I am left with after the world has moved on? dormant and dried fossilized unable to grow in the bones of a future I never wanted? what if I go to sleep tonight and tomorrow I can no longer write just sit and sift through the dust on my pillow and remember.