Dreams pass into the reality of action. From the actions stems the dream again; and this interdependence produces the highest form of living.

Every time I speak about my Tship it's like I'm trying to describe a strange dream I had a long time ago, but can't seem to find the words. I gaze into your eyes and look at the empty expression on your face, waiting for a hint that you too have had that dream, and that you'll understand. I then gaze at the floor for a moment or two. I can't find the words, but I can recall the dream. The words are scattered and surface deep. You would never know it but I can still feel the warm rain touch my skin, taste the fluffy tortillas as they hit my taste buds, hear the soft beat of the Regeaton out my bedroom window as I drift off to sleep, and I can see the smiling face of the guard with the automatic greeting me at my apartment each night as I hop out of the back of the pick up truck at the corner, and hurry inside.

You wouldn't know it by my words, but it lingers.