M is lost dreams were born without conception, pages torn from a history incontinua, missing parts of a bizarre puzzles, black holes that consume my energy transported to this surreal universe where past, present and future cease to be a logical sequence to become nails that hold me to that cross that has been wrought with pain caused by what should be and not was. Of these dreams is better not to speak, for it is overwhelming that over perpetual live like ghosts in my heart.
