Would it not be lovely, if it were possible to create another dimension, one in which you were able to coincide with yourself. A place to merge bodacious with timid, morph ponder into wit, slip away from the past and start anew.

I think that is called fiction, not life.

Still, how splendiferous to become a figment of imagination.

I think that is called touched, not wise.

Still, wise is not always called for.

I think that is called responsibility, make do.

Still, all you can do is do what you must.