Morning. Sitting in the courtyard, coffee. An old pair of jeans and a messed up damaged old black shirt cigarette in hand words being channeled from someplace somewhere nowhere places unknown without a destination. You're an artist without a canvas. The world is your canvas. Your life is the canvas. You've got to at least create something, say something, do something while you're sorry ass still remains tethered to this planet. Some people call this life, some people call this earth while others just call it purgatory. I suppose in the end that it's all up to you. Make the most of it because it ain't coming back around.