The first line is a main entrance, the last thought before breaking in. The only thing I’ve ever been good at is practicing. Dreams were a talent I developed out of an early hobby of sleeping. Since then, I’ve learned insomniacs count missiles rather than sheep. Most times, I’m not sure there is a target until I reach it. It’s much easier to lift wind since I am a desert like the joke I only get because it’s not that funny. Unlike me, pharmacies are bright—really clear until I walk out of them. Sheep follow each other down my throat, and I always lose count. I try feeling like I was born seven minutes ago, like wrapping clouds in Christmas lights and blacking the city out. I know now when one arrives the journey may never have existed. The approach matters only to that which appears, but there’s a traffic jam on the road to recovery and I take baby steps toward maturity’s nowhere…