in our dreams we smooth and polish the rocks of remembrance into pearls, which, by the light of day, we demolish because reality faces the mind that swirls. Pressure will be a memory to her. No matter how much she tries, she will not be able to summon up the ghosts of it. It will be gone from her like fading flowers and nothing will breath life in to its lungs again. This existence of it, the desire to produce and work under it and all its motivations, drive; helps move work now not later. The pressure stops. But time never does. Everyday has its own promise of being great…
