Gasoline and Guitars.

James worked at a gas staion on Route 66, just outside of Alberquerque, New Mexico.
Had done ever since his graduation.00

He lived at his Dad's house, and saved every spare cent he could muster, so one day he could live out his dream.
After 20 long years of working, he hung up his overalls, and caught a plane to Morocco.
He bought an old, dilapidated house five minutes outside the city walls of Essaouira,
the same house a certain Mr Jimi Hendrix once owned, and the same house where he wrote "Castles Made of Sand".
The word 'house' doesn't really describe, as it was more of a palace than a house,
but more of a ruin than a palace.
Either way, it belonged to James now, not Jimi.

He built himself a home there, out of nothing more than found objects and good workmanship.
He was used to the heat, he had always lived in the desert.
And it was here, in his dream, that James found sadness.

There is no tragic tale of forbidden love with a Berber girl, or thieves stealing his food.
Just the inevitable dawning of realisation, in the quiet morning hours;
when you are alone with yourself, and you realise that that is all you are ever going to have.
Those times in the chilly pre-dawn, when you lie in your bed, hugging your knees,
and praying for more sleep.
Those times when you catch yourself dreaming of something even better than your dream.
Because although life is what you make it, no one thing can ever be enough to make you satisfied.

James sold up and moved back to New Mexico, and spent the rest of his life pumping gas, and smiling.
He knew the world, you see.

It is just a castle made of sand.