Rescue missions and that one true thing...

So I wrote a play last night, or the beginnings of one. Sitting on my porch, water in my Great Muppet Caper cup, ticonderoga in hand, I committed my ramblings to paper. It's about rescue missions, two mice, a dream, the cavalry, lone morning trumpets, a tiny talking lizard, green true light, french heralding weasel-esque characters, and a criss-crossed lifeline. It's about kibou. Rescue hoover crafts and hot air balloons. And of fleeing flagrant hearts.
It's a fictionalized account of my life, or my life is a fictionalized account of this play. Either way, gotta sit down and stare into the night, and figure out a few things. Like ties and how they continue or are broken. And how energy can neither be created nor destroyed. And why my handwriting is so bad. Goodnight Gracie...