I have dreams but I don't want to sell them. I've never been any good at that. No money in that want of given things freely. Oh, I have a beat up old dream around here somewhere that I'll sell but my heart won't be in it. I guess I'll never be an Imagination Vendor. Those people with names like Disney and Lucas that sold their dreams so well. Still when my asthma isn't bad like it is today I have hope. Sometimes I think I have asthma because I have dusty old dreams.
Then again I'm a being of pure light and my imagination has no bounds. My dreams burn like white hot stars made of diamond dust! We are a web of imagination in an echo of nothing! My dream is no more important than the largest or smallest of anyone's dream!
Keep your prepackaged dreams you vendors of a thousand hollow tales I have a few of my own!
The above post is what happens when you write when you're sick.
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