I can taste it, but it’s muted, as if the flavor has been squeezed out and what’s left is an empty carcass of dried-up passion. It needs salt, and joy. Something to awaken it. The awakening is painful and slow; the building of a fire, the slow drip of an IV. Passion.
To wake-up or give-up? To sleep or to sleep walk? To lie awake at night. To chase dreams or nightmares? Is this the meaning of it all? The underlying quest, the search to awaken, the infusion of life into dry bones. Fill these caverns that ache for breath.