All that was ever possible.
I do not know what to do with these wild flowers I have brought home. I know they are dying in my care, even as they shine now for the freedom that lights beyond my window. I am quite taken by them, in so much that I say that literally actually, they have addled my brain with equal parts suspense, lust, jealousy, and remorse. I aliken myself to a child who has snared his first bird on the hunt, a goal subdued, the thrill of the hunt amidst the throes of first regret. These things are never certain, it seems. This will be my last season of doubt. I should wonder what’s brought me here, but I’ve learned looking back that nothing is a mistake, rather it’s all exactly as it happened. You should wonder why I picked you, how we happened to have something in common, but I cannot explain why my heart beats, as much as scientists like to suppose, there is a force and a reason for living which eludes them, just as there is a force and a reason for tears, and a time and a season for gathering flo