Dream Journal

The bartender is wet; my martini is dry.

I parked my car two blocks away from heaven.

Part of me wishes that when I beat the drum it beats me back.

Alcohol and pregnancy make a great combo.

At the park, holding a book, scribbling down thoughts I pray the page is worthy of.

It’s time to make another bad decision.

Somewhere between Hialeah and Hell.

Did you give something to me, or did I steal in cold blood?

What are the odds that it might strike me?