Back in the cradle of old days, when we had paper boats sailing in rain puddles, I used to peek out of my bedroom window and everytime I did it, I saw you jumping over the wooden fence across the yard. I still remember the familiar 'thud' of your black canvas shoes as they hit the soft ground. My mother used to yell at you for throwing your entire being out at the world just like that. She was so afraid that the cryptic cosmos would suck your soul into invisibility and her daughter would keep waiting for her first love. Broken. Hollow. Forever restless.

But you said that you couldn't belong 'cause you were a wanderer and you had no fear of losing your soul to the wilderness. That's what you said, fast and breathless, while your voice tasted madly of elysian skies and rain forests. Oh weren't you such a beautiful mess?

So, right next day, I jumped over the wooden fence across the yard and...you yelled at me for being mindless? Darlin', today I'm standin' on a rooftop in NewYork and can you guess that I still don't understand your inability to comprehend that there's a fine silken line between losing your mind and being a wanderess.