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I begin, here – as I lie awake in bed, although – topic aside, off subject in head I return to the Westerns of old in youth, to ponder instead – of who was better Wayne, Eastwood or Newman. Men who depict character, shades and hue, and what could become of man if we keep our feet – stand and fight until the end. I continue, there – as I lie awake, again enamored by the strong feminine which I cannot recall a single face. What does that say of me? Devoid of depth and character – refine a sense of distillation from me, my words and reflect a man focused on more beyond borders of sense yet delve into intellect. One placed between gluttony and greed – kidnapped by Comanche my selfish need ego laced with one thought – me. I finish, where – as I lie to myself, again enslaved to procrastination's solemn lack of ambition. I can hear Ethan Edwards anguish “don’t ever ask me more" as I lie awake, yearning – yearning for someone to implore ask of possibility demand faith be restored in the brave and bold. The Searchers, define – as I grow weary, on this, the third night. There is more monster inside cold steel, scalp in hand – a decade gone marred from misanthropy fighting to be better at the end. My thoughts walk off, I dream – am I shadow or man? |