Maybe it is like this?

That with skies and puddles, red earth, crumpled napkins, careless hellos, unfinished breakfasts, there isn't too much to a day other than a giant, phantasmagorical Rorscharch test. The late nights is when I'm staring hard at the smudge that the day arranged for me. I assign a meaning and then I sleep. To do the very same thing the next day. Maybe, in summation, at the end of my life, I will see those hard thought meanings speckle the expanse of the wings of the Rorscharch butterfly that will fly away.