In a perfect world, my lowest ambition might lie among the tracks beneath the city, where we disembark for another day in the shops, offices and warehouses that frame our modest lives. Twelve thousand days for work, and the balance of the time to play.
In a perfect world, my highest ambition might lie along the rusted rails south of town. That's where the freight trains gather speed for their northern journey, and it's the last chance to get on board. Two thousand miles of fields, rivers and sky turn the heart, and it races with the train.
Last night I dreamed I was a partial genius. I knew everything, but could think of only one thing at a time. The elusive pattern-that-connects was nearly always obvious to me, but failed to generate the momentum required to overcome apathy. I was frequently inspired, but rarely energetic. My tastes favored the eclectic, but I hid them to avoid the appearance of eccentricity. Rational intuition guided my decisions, but self-sabotage spoiled their execution. 
During my early-morning walk, I noticed an unusual insect perched on the branch of a peach tree. When I stopped to examine it, it spread its wings in a startling display of impossibly complex patterns, and iridescent hues that seemed to illuminate my surroundings. As I stood, wide-eyed, attempting to make sense of the apparition, it began to speak. 
