Since I'm a very sad boy with very little to do , I might as well post an ongoing narrative. Feel free to interrupt with comments, I'm no topic control freak.

*****PART 1*****

James perched the base of his palm on the windowsill, the window open, sweet air tumbling in to his bedroom, harsh light crawling through the old glass panes like bottlenecks. This was man's world on a good day. Below him lay a hot pavement with kid's tiptoeing, their toes like sidewinders on a desert floor. Above this scene, the trees stood steady, burdened at this time of year with pastel blossom like candy floss, the tree's thick arms branching towards a crystal clear sky.

This was a cosy world. Most warmed to it over the years, it's nooks and crannies fitting comfortably like an old jacket. Famous writers had cooed millions just by admiring it's details, their pens sailing on it's ridges.

What a clichè.

Although James skin was beginning to take a liking to the sun's gentle roast, his mind was elsewhere. You see, James is a dreamer.

A lot people say they are a dreamers; very few are. When Martin Luther King said that he had a dream; he did not. You see, a true dream cannot exist in this flat, dimensional world. A true dream is a flower, and to bloom, it's petals must have room and feed. A true dream was a beautiful prospect. And right now, James' head was in one.

His eyes, barely governed by his wondering mind, pondered down to an old woman trotting across the kerb as fast as her tired legs could carry her. He had liked this woman, known her like a sister. It was this woman who first threw his mind out of the gutter and into the dream. He once had great respect for this woman; now that had died out. To her, life fitted like a leather glove. She would dip in to other worlds occasionally, create some even, but she would keep returning to life like it was some dear old friend.

'Don't lose yourself, ' She would say.