Don't go shooting all the dogs cuz one of them has fleas.

I just can't get them out. Just all kind of images floating around. Trains, planes and automobiles. Thoughts of Paris streets being cleaned by shop keepers and men in blue uniforms. Ranches and Texas sunsets, hell even sunrises. Images of people dancing, in the streets, in the clubs. Sometimes I drift off and daydream of being a rock star. This intrigues me as well. When I ever I have gotten on stage in recent memory, to say a few words of welcome or thanks, my voice trembles and my mind reels in fear. But I still see my self bathed in light in front of a roaring crowd moving to MY rhythm. Actually I see myself onstage as if I were standing in the crowd. I see how I look and how I move. I love me. teehee
I also had thoughts of setting balloons free at the break of dawn. Hell I have so many thoughts and images floating in my head right now I can't even get them straight enough to put them into words.
rain, highways, fences, tall grass blowing in the wind. Big trucks on the highway, a big truck driving down a small two lane road in the middle of nowhere West Texas, blowing the tall dry grass growing on the side of the road. They way the mist forms on the roadway in the rain with heavy traffic. Neon lights and thunderstorms. A forgotten radio playing in an empty room. There was a story in a magazine about an old man who owned a warehouse full of motorcycle parts. Buried somewhere in the place was a radio. It had been on the same station, buried under parts for 50 years. That makes me think about an empty room with white walls and a bare wood floor, a small wooden table and chair sits in the corner, near a window. The thin curtains are swirling in the afternoon breeze. On top of the table is a radio, playing songs from a place and time that never existed. A voice telling me about the time and temperature of a place that has never been. The other corner of the room is small bed. White sheets, worn by time. A green wool blanket pulled taught across the frame. A little blue nightstand, holding a book and a lamp. A sad room. The room of a man who has no love in his life. A man who life consists only of work. From sun up to sun down during the week he toils away in some unknown job. But on Sundays, his only day away from the grease or gloom or dirt of labor, he sits at the table. Listens to his radio, and watches out the window. He thinks of time ahead and behind. He thinks of a woman he has never seen. Who plays in the sun. A white dress twirling and floating on her shoulders as she spins and leaps in the grass. Every now and then she'll take a moment from her dance, she'll stop and look towards the window. And she smiles and waves and he smiles back. Cigarette smoke floats around his head, and blows out the window into the empty yard. The girl only in his head, an angel of sorts. The hope and wish of blue eyes looking into his. A soft hand holding his, a warm hug that lingers while he works. And the radio plays on, delivering songs that no one has heard but sound like you have heard them you whole life.