You are the distance between an author and the first copy of their first book.

You are a memory filled with grief that has only one shining star, one path to happiness.

You are like the numbers 6 and 9 , put them upside down, change your opinions but, you end up with the same answer.

You are the faint scent of lemons from a corner of an abandoned crate.

You are an angry Donald Duck babbling on about the endless misfortune of his three little nephews.

You are a hungry lion after finding a never ending source of food.

You are in London waiting for a moment, a bus, that will never come, your dream still there.

You are a tree burning, twisting and bending like a human in pain.

You are a complex web of stories and poems, ever-expanding ideas of joy.

You are the end.