Chalk full and clean; no white powder leaving a trail on my history, no residew to leave marks on my fingers, nothing to erase in the end. I'm in a room full of prospects--like those horrible dreams with the long hall of doors. I can put my finger on every knob and turn it, twist it, tickle it, but never does it open. The rainy season is over, so I danced instead. Sweat dripping down my back as I pull the weight of sorrows behind me; what sorrows? What sorrows could little miss Ellie have when she's got prospect, opportunity, beginnings? I'll tell you. She's got beautiful beginnings, rich in detail and beauty, full of compassion and love--but where's the middle? Where's the ending? I'll tell you the problem. She's got a hallway chalk full blackboards hidden behind locked doors; opportunity stopped by the first hello. C'est la vie. Bullshit. C'est pas la vie. C'est un commence. c'est tout. Just a start. Like revving the engine and leaving the car in park. The Reason. Would you ever sing this song to me? Would any of it--any lyrics of a lifetime--really mean anything? Or are they all sad songs? If so, I'm dancing to a different beat. Can't keep up? Sit down; I don't want my toes stepped on. Oh the prospect. I'm through with having potential, lets move on to the real stuff.