The morning holds metallic tastes in frozen waterfalls. The birdsong, at long last, is what it is- no echo of foreboding that my conscience could insist is mine, if I’m important, yet the ever-knowing ghost. I’m lost in green tea solitude and silence in my heart, while traffic-sounds are merely human days- no hell need be ascribed to them, nor speculation’s tongue, since anything and everything can be. And dog-and-cat imaginations need not polarize the gentle breeze, the sunshine, and the breath that I have found. I’m restful, though I’ve woken and I’m working like I should, since no one’s told me otherwise who cannot be ignored. I used to think that hope was blissful madness on my part, but now it seems I’ve learned that we’re all mad. It isn’t healthy to be sane- not in a world like this- and thus, I love my head-voices, as rabid as they are. The living may have much to do to live as they will live, but though I skulk amongst them, I’ve no need to take it all. I’ve heard the cries of infancy in older men than me, and maybe I can help them help themselves.