I think it is because we all tread on feeble tight ropes made of silken threads and our unsteady hearts lead me to be far too nice to people. But yet I always leave some empty hole, somewhere. I fear people completely misunderstand the state I’m in, I fear they misunderstand completely what I am. I suppose, I long too much to make centaurs smile and find friendly shadows in the eyes of Medusa’s snakes. Too much do I want some sort of human connection to spiral out of callus fingers, the kind that leaves a warmth that you feel only after (and it’s always after) you have been tightly embraced. I just want palm lines to react and I guess I just try too hard for the things I want and am often left with less than I started with, always fading into the netherworld reconstructed and forgotten dancing in the shadows of beautifully woven threads.