I am 23 years old and I have 93 dollars. These dollars of course are simply numbers on the screen of my banking app and in no way represent anything tangible or for that matter non-tangible. They are as illusory as life itself, this dream. Yet in dreams we do not need to eat or pay the rent or have insurance or make our parents and our friends proud. I am 23 and I have decided upon the most selfish of all desicions; to become an artist. Which is a horrid lie of sentance, because I never really “decided” to “become” an “artist.” I simply follow the yellow brick road of my soul down thought provoking, non pay stubbing, eternal elbow rubbing. I am certainly in this moment the clay clad cheetah running still. Who’s habitat is as much a creation of mine own as is my habitat. I am 23 years old and some would call me lazy, selfish, a bent tack hammered into a wall too solid, a stolid blossoming flower at the bottom of the blackened sea, awaiting a star fish matrimony and an apocalyptic constellation to fall into play. I am 23 years old and some would call me brilliant, loving, they would say that I have “it,” they would encourage me to take out the trash on tuesday’s and move my car prior to street sweeping. They would say I don’t need the sink hole of violations. They would say the quick sand beneath me is hardned and I that I am an elephant in the La Brea tar pits patiently awaiting enlightenment. I am 23 years old and in my 24th year of life and perhaps my 6th or 7th year of death. And I am in the year of the horse, my horse, myself, and I ride this stallion from field to field in search of corn, but the weary roadside travelers who sell the corn will not be bargained with and I am busy in whirlpools to be bothered with cropping them myself, less it be in a picture for instagram. I am a 23 year old baby child grown man elderly infant who is at his core a woman. A woman with her eyes covered but her body bare, a woman with her body covered and her eyes ablaze. If I find the tribulations of a tribe and atribute them to be trite, a tranquil tightrope will unviel itself to me and timidly ask that I tip toe across and that like a trapeze trained monkey, if I should fall I’ll tell them all what my will be, and who will gain my untold tears that hide in endeless chapters of imaginary prose. The sun waterfalls in san pelligrino a washes my face of an absent appitite for mass appeal. I need not the televised plank of wood but only the players to impose this imaginary prose. Rid us of our planet clothes and spacefall into an abyss of tryst. And at 23 years old I am as nonsensical as 2 3 year olds, playing make believe called house. Espoused is my spouse that a cat and a mouse be bewildered. That they chase ad infinitum a bank loan at Chase. To open up an open house with a giant chaise lounge for the couples in post-chaise Dodge Ram’s to consider the value and conduciveness of their conduct amongst the town folks from Victorian windows in which they set free of confinement their vices. Kitty cats and mice know all too well the struggle of illusion. The snuggle of consfusion. The hubble bubble of bemusement. At the far reaching ends of space a dark trepid cloud views us from trillions of lightyears in the past and asks, “what is love? baby don’t hurt me no more.”