I own fame.

Own it.

Taste it like fluoride, sleep-master-maker. 

Bradman begun it all or was it the Beatles?

The blue album. 67-70. Dad's vinyl. My house in Mt Riverview. Endless laps on the turn-table.

Those sounds. That vibe. The ooze of Infinite Good.

And Bradman. The golf ball on the water tank. The maiden hundred. The triple century. The face of hope in the gutter called Depression. The agonising final innings duck.

And how these sounds and stories enthralled. The highest capacity of human. The peak of all success.

And how I longed for the hero status. The elevation. The acclaim. The starring role.

And why not?

Later on I would read Louise Hay and tune in with the vast all-circling Hara lines and the rope of Intention guiding this wandering Dream called Real.

And so I choose it all. And why not?