I am wistful
For things that never happened —
At least, not to me.
I look back to dreams
That I borrow-stole’d
From others who made them real
For themselves.

What was my dream?
What did I want out of my life?
What did I work so hard at
To, maybe, attain some goal?

I am terrified
Of increasingly indistinct memories
That pull at me with haint-hands
I set things in motion,
But I turned my back;
Now Father faintly recognizes
His own progeny.

What is my dream?
What do I want out of the rest of my life?
What can I work so hard at
To, maybe, attain a new goal?

I am so sorry, my children!
Daddy let himself get lost.
While I still have power to move
My hands to hold yours,
May I?
May we dream, strive, achieve —

Jay is increasingly obsessed with time and its short supply. Want more proof? Here’s an old song he wrote about a certain malfunctioning clock. He should have fully completed it.  —Ed.