Wanted dream.

I’m afraid, my dear, that my home left me in the dust of McKinney a long time ago. His needles of greenery soaking into the blood were his aspirations before croaking at 20 by self induced terror of later years. No. My home is not dead. But my home has changed and no longer welcomes me. So I make my bed in other homes, that welcome me with smiles. I want what I dream, and it lives on.