Would you rather be Free or Rich?

Moon dances with clouds.

It will be full soon. Waxing crescent at 19%.

These moons, remembering clouds in August. Such a cruel and heartless forgotten forgiving month,

hearing sky welcoming moon, clouds inside precision.

Approaching full. Running on empty.

A word. A piece of heavy equipment. Lighter than a feather it is capable of knocking things down.

A moon Metro subterranean subway car on Saturday. Speed inside optical tunnels. An old man wearing a crumpled white hat walks slowly with his wife.

She is his noun; he, her verb, her action. "Just get to the verb," he whispers. Their language is a tree filled with autumn's changing colors, sparrows, blue jays, and love's doves.

Far away on a street of memories, a street of regrets, streets spilling potentials, sweet street's passion dances with death.

The moon Metro is picking up speed. We are hurtling through space-time. Silent, salient passengers wear sad eyed desire. They crave sleep.

The tyranny of sheep-less-ness. 

Make a list of 10 things you want to do before you die.