I live in a magic carnival with what goes on while asleep -- dreams, nightmares -- life deals us such a hand sometimes there is no difference between them -- do I talk, do I scream, I have woken in laughter -- age blurs what may have once been a dream into what was not -- but is there a distinct time for consciousness -- times are we might wish that something was a dream, or that a dream was not, but real and there was a time when I was not sure if it were not real, but in recalling it seems to be neither. I often wonder what life is like at the end of the life of someone who’s not me -- what could that be -- by one passing I was told “what a waste”, I asked “what”, “life, my whole life was a waste”, “but you did things”, I said, “what a waste, what a waste” the passer repeated. Standard to judge? By whose? Had I been incarcerated for life would I manage to imagine I was free -- free of the world, the cruel, the mad and the meddling -- but having paid a visit, it is there too, the cruel, the mad, the meddling and strict, strictly speaking. Names attach themselves to never detach -- the freedom is ours to commit social suicide and continue to exist in another form. Incarceration condemns you to who you are or were, with no exit. And the the creatures in the carnival scream, "the lights, the lights, remember the lights!"