...an ideal.

To go south, in winter. Rain, cold and lonely, the first signs of spring. Of flowers, Narcissus papyraceus, little white things. Delicate are you, dappled and your head hung low.

O, Narcissus, in your reflection, do you love yourself? Do you do to you what spring does to the cherry blossoms, the Not-Picasso wants to know? In your last moments, bubble breathed, do you go slow?

Does it all, Clair De Lune, show beautiful at your face? Oh, how I want to know.

Or does it malinger and April is the cruelest month?


..And God Bless You ALL--

Oh, what a song you sang. I
can still hear you screaming so loud, lost
as you are.
It won't bring you



Can you go slow for me, little one?

It's not over.