At least, even when I want to do nothing but ball up into a little fist-shape of a human, there's still that long old man in the shabby coat with they graying hair and they eyes too young for his face, and the air around him that glows soft and bluish. He is kind and gentle-faced, with an adoring look and speech that's nothing but sighs, he leans heavily on his cane and the bones under skin are just this side of a tango, a jig, a madcap dance.

What does he do? What doesn't he do!

No, no no. He is good for a very few things, most of which are:

Using my fingers to write love letters into the night sky, which say things that I cannot otherwise admit. So what if he's got a name like a musical instrument and the spirit gotten? He's a good-for-me guy, like a long hard cry.

This is my love letter then, to that shabby grey wisp of smoke with the heart fit to burt, who loves everything, anything, the sky, and you.

<<agé chose>>

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