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I wish to write about happy times, of children propping themselves on dry leaves, of impulsive road trips, of clear facets of glass prisms, Royo nudities, white sand beaches, of first kisses, of intense lovemaking. I wish to capture the fleeting moments and bottle them up in contemplation. I miss myself humming and smiling to myself whenever some of the little pleasures cross my mind, waving, smiling, calling my name -- join us, let's frolick in the mud! I am turned to moments of disquietude during ungodly hours. Melancholy, being an unwelcome bedfellow. What happened to life and its promises? What happened to wit, i am surrounded by mortal idiots. :)