...Inside me lives a mischievous type, a goblin. My whole life would crave to be pirouettes. To balance outside of mind and law, to break schedules and fertilize eggs, to disregard the consequences of my actions - as if those who measure and remeasure them ever make any sense out of it? Do they perhaps escape the randomness and the fleeting nature of existence? To feel moments like notes, to obey only my internal rhythm... Inside me, that little kid who constantly caused trouble, who stuck his tongue out at everyone, whose world was a blank sheet of paper, sometimes drawing on it, sometimes scribbling, sometimes setting it on fire, insists on jumping around...
I admire those who start for the kiosk and end up on the other side of the world. The wherever they are is home, the bird-people. I am a tree. Can a bird become a tree, a tree a bird? As a tree, what can you hope for?

To refresh those who rest in your shade. To be preferred by the winged ones, to build their nests. For squirrels and little foxes to enjoy your fruits. Above all, when the wind rises, for your foliage to swell like the sails of a ship even though your roots hold you in the same place. To turn the air into music and for your music to reach places you will never be. "The tree is singing again..." they would say.