i have never been privy to imitate my life in art, as some have been as lucky, or, in some cases, unlucky enough to have been, with love and life laid bare upon the stage, but to do so, so beautiful, so tragic, so full of love, shakespear in love, finally seen, understood i can only hope, i can only dream that dream of dreams, a love to write plays about, a muse, driving force, that which causes all effects, from which hope spring eternal, love, and oftentimes good ends in bad, the dreams ends, sometimes you just have to wake up, and only wish to dream again the next time you close your eyes, and lay your head upon your pillow. enough already, statements made, and firmly believed, what is now, will not be what is tomorrow, or the next or months or years or minutes, for change is inevitable, and it sounds familiar, but the world and what it might bring for me on the 'morrow, i wonder, not expect, but open wide my arms and embrace the day, the night, the hours and minutes, this is my life.