Where would you find me, if not lying curled up and small beside the book of your wild poetry… night after night, only to be seen in the cool gaze of a moonful swoon… only to be felt fainting in the circus of various desires within your fickle heart… a clown… what would you find of me, if not a joke or a carelessly absurd expression, if I were to stop right now… stop being the recognizable face in this riot of colors and colorful treasures. What a beautiful picture I hold… could I walk through this dreary wasteland listening to the fairy-tale that I was told? What is that resolved urgency in your voice that speaks to me of a heavy heavy truth? Could I not close my eyes and sing of the beauty of the night and dance to the glory of a flower? Why do you tell me of monsters and ghosts when I’ve only just begun to walk without fear? Do you not like the lightness of freedom, my heavy heavy friend?