fMy own journey is self-inflicted. I have many stories, but all end. The omega of my wandering is a destiny of favor. Choices are made while listening to the story of other choices being made, reflecting reflections upon themselves; one could create tunnels to other worlds but I have little patience for travel these days.Night falls on my working way. My magnum is an opus, with all the sway of the rooftops and the sound of the wind sighing, after dark. It makes me dance inside my head. I don't want to get away. I want to get outside. There is a pool of data. Demented sensory overload rides the conscious brain. So much sex. So much time. So many people that I lied to. So much worry. So much planning. I could have built a machine that produced a beverage out of pennies.What kind of machine am I; I work for pennies, too.