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My own journey is self-inflicted.

I have many stories, but all end.
The omega of my wandering is a destiny of favor.
Choices are made while listening to the story of other choices being made, refle
cting reflections upon themselves; one could create tunnels to other worlds but
I have little patience for travel these days.
Night falls on my working way. My magnum is an opus, with all the sway of the r
ooftops and the sound of the wind sighing, after dark.
It makes me dance inside my head. I don't want to get away. I want to get outs
ide.
There is a pool of data. Demented sensory overload rides the conscious brain.
So much sex. So much time. So many people that I lied to. So much worry. So
much planning.
I could have built a machine that produced a beverage out of pennies.
What kind of machine am I; I work for pennies, too.