Clouds stretch across the sky; below, water stretches an equal distance. At the edge of the water is grass – and at the edge of the grass is desert. Orchids open in the sunlight, but cease to exist when the air is bare of hospitality, white winter spirits flying by. The many tangles of one’s hair could so easily be gone with the simple snip of a scissor. The bits and pieces dead and littering the floor. But would it be cruel to remove such an imperfect feature? To end it like the passion in a child’s eyes after they play and laugh and tumble then fall? I have to make a choice. To end this and start anew or stay in the comfortable past.