I’ve spent my life counting illusions–a great waste of time–like standing in the rain in your good clothes. And I’ve walked in and out of shadows like a tax collector, a man on a sad errand. And when I take out my pocket watch, my little souvenir from the last century, I see that my life is at the three quarter mark, that the mysteries are taller and more impenetrable than ever. The sands of night were all about me in my dream. I was threading my way through a pass in the mountains and my twin brother–dead since our birth–who has aged in his own way–he was walking before me with a stick. I saw how together we would live on in the music of silence. I’ve spent my life in love with the new industries of dreams. A great waste of time. Like wading in the waters of yesterday. Meantime, fortunes come and go.