I feel so very less then energized by the propect of solitary ceral or a self-fried egg that they already tell me is no good for me. I dream of calling a cab, showing the driver the above picture, and instructing him to take me there with all possible acceleration, not sparing the horsepower. And the driver will of course imediately comply and speed me to this wonderous place where I will breakfast on smoked salmon, caviar, and perfect sweet rolls; where I’ll drink mimosas and superior coffee, and flirt with beautiful women in low cut dresses who will swiftly adore me. After that I will be ready for any work of genius that might present itself through the remainder of the day.
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The secret words are Dream and On