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These fingers generate my flow. Maybe in another place where the pen in which it writes is desired. It is a catch-22. Either way, the overzealous pen it seems that the thought of being is the work of my soul. Perfect? Not so perfect at all. Different? Ever-so different. I tried to fit a square into a circle, like a meaningless shadow drenched in rain. Within a dream I want to wake myself before I dream of something else. I bare my soul and I hope as this pen translate my flow. Is it a lucid dream or if love is the answer, what is the question and can it be solved? The love of the words that is being written by the pen that generates my thoughts.