Tales

Your horoscope says this is the month your dreams come true, she says matter-of-factly. You stand in your Sunday casuals and wonder which of your dreams the stars are getting at, and what kind of net you'll need to rein them in. Do I just stand here and wait, then? I ask her, but the stars do not divulge their methods, so I go to bed and wonder if the tingle in my toes is approaching magic.

Mondays arrive with their usual humdrum in the airwaves, but I greet morning with slow steps along the river and move into the quiet office with my snail shell contents because all that is mine I carry with me and there is no peace in work if I do not live in it. It occurs to me that all the freedom I asked for is at my fingertips, that when I say if I could only spend a life like this I'd ask for no more I'm making hypothetical that which I've already made real. I pack up my piles of paper and my buckets of ink and move into the dark little bar off the Bowery to return to worlds I've created out of nothing.

My horoscope says this is the month my dreams come true.

I'm starting to think they already did.