We once set out to build a fence to keep our dreams intact, because everyone has a fence or needs one to stop the hemorrhage of bad manners. Good intentions leave a ragged, rotten pile of mess in the corners of our minds while the gypsies stay contained inside cinder freedoms. They construct our plastic lives, stamping instructions on good graces. And feast upon our hearts, these lost gypsy souls, until we’re flesh made stone. Our eyes focus on some distant nowhere, the place we all seek. But forever is far away and yesterday, a dream constructed from the disembodied rubbish of daily life. So we soil our hands uprooting snow-capped peaks while digging for the sun. And, heeding the cry that’s lost its way, we walk through empty miles in silent judgmental longings.