I can ride like a troubadour with flower and lute and a mind full of verse and love! I could ride along the many dusty trails of Spain and into the green thickets and rolling hills of France. I could fashion myself a prince among singers and bards. I could wear a feather in my hat and call countrysides to remember their hearts and their loved ones and leave them in rapture and ecstasy. But why? Why would I ride hunchbacked along a lonely and long trail when all that I would have lies across a narrow bridge, albeit it is a bridge of thorns and it no wider than a hair to those of lesser faith. But you within a tower I can plainly see would not heed me no matter how many songs about love and doves and Kookaburras I sang out to you. Instead I shall write this lonely fragment of my immense longing and then within the chimney of my mind I shall burn it to ash and cinder. Then it shall be left to me to draw within its ash a secret and then blow it into the night air — thus are dreams made.