Knowing something uncertain is an interesting thing. It in truth is not a way of really knowing at all. It is knowing because it can’t be known, it is a knowing of faith.

One dark night, and on many repeat occasions when the music is right, I am filled with a knowing that one day, my name will cover books. That I am an author because authors always are authors even before the first letter is in print. This feeling comes to me over the Altamont on dark days beneath overhangs and over hills that reveal a horizon of spotted lights.

I’m elevated, floating above cars from my drivers seat. I am speeding and smiling and sometimes crying or laughing.

I know because I can’t know. I know like the faithful know god. It is irrational, not worth a bet. But what should I do, deny it? Be realistic, and let that reality bring me down to nothing more then hope. What strength is hope to what is known?

I wonder if knowing can be lost, worse then dreams because you knew it should have been so. It was more then possibility, it was like what is, and just as certain.

Ten cards litter a floor to my right, they tell me nothing positive, only warnings. Forward is shame, regardless of my actions.

Shame frightens me. It drains my will to hear no one expects great things from me. I am vigorous and youthful, and all the errors of failed would-bes loom over me.

Am I noble? Fatherly? Kingly? What would a king do in my position? What kind of king am I?

I pray gods send me dreams tonight.