A short imagined statement while not being able to wake up during a recent dream in which our fore fathers waged conversation while appearing on Monday night television and James Madison, John Jay and Alexander Hamilton with a young Clint Eastwood guest hosting as the moderator on Inside The Actor’s Studio felt that being a little bit too pissed off might free up new sort of modern day 18th century independence… - by Craig Turnwall

If our dreams are typical red
are they not atypical blood spackles and you and I a Monday ware?
Which none of this I see, I speak to thee and find wavers tempered toward
dawns or a daily penance for I myself do not believe such acts can be foretold.
No thing lies into fate that easily. If I bare this to arms or police now, I place no grace upon what may be done with forces unleashed.
I do not beseech thee to allow them gains. Nor do I declare beyond points of misrepresentation of my fellows, we sit beside you as nights tremble upon your weeks, we watch as you crash and follow and look upon eyes, like we search crags on hope for wider openings, free us.
Are such items now unreachable by discussion? Do we not follow in footsteps laid before by sacrifice and blood? Can we not unite and simplify our objectives as passionately and irrevocably as to a mighty resolve once more? To whom shall we listen? Are we not privy to our own uncontained hearts? I will not answer these questions, for they are not mine to query. Though, if allowed I might engage you with this; dreams are not always colorful in sight, we make them our own when items and personals lead us clearly to textures and vivid palettes, but once brought forth to vision, could persons ever feel content with black and white images again, would color not be a evolution for tired eyes? Do not fear inner workings. Do not refrain from casting doubts toward all you find base. These are new times smelt with new revolutions.

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