they have all of Brunelleschi's rage and Bombadil's joy. we skip and sing and scream at the rain. I can't describe to you what it's like to have such consuming emotions that I forget where I'm walking to, though my feet keep moving me on. I'm dreaming of a greenhouse and a wolfhound dog that welcome me home in the airy afternoons of the future. and of course you kissing my forehead in the pink light.