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philosopher, cynical dreamer, geek

I want to be a collector of days. I want to gather days on a string like beads. I want to put them in a basket like wild strawberries. I want to sing days. I want days to dance in the wind like autumn leaves. I want days to knock on my window like rain drops. I want days to melt in my hand like snowflakes. I want to breathe days like air in May. I want to count days like stars. I want to find days and to surprise them. When I am old days will fall out like my teeth, fade like my hair, grow deep like the wrinkles on my skin. I will chain smoke days and I will drink days like red wine. I will read days like books and I will write days like love letters. Days will rhyme and they will play and they will leap and there will be many words for days. Days will haunt me. Days will whisper in my ear. I will forget days and days will come again. Days will possess me and I will give myself to days. I will wear days like masks. I will laugh days and days will echo, days will call me and days will leave me. Each day will give me a tear and each day will give me a thought. Days will know me and will shake my hand. Days will break into a thousand pieces. I will see days in the mirror and I will make days beautiful, and days will disappear when I look away.