Here is what I can tell you: (I can't tell you anything)
The best way I can describe it to you is: (I can't describe it at all)
Those of you who also carry lost childhoods that are captured far away in grey never-never lands will know what I mean when I say, well-- what I mean to say is that I am
I am sorry to bring you news of sorrow, but that is the only way I will be able to communicate with you and you and the white moon at night and the small animals that run and the mockingbirds that sing [from now on]. If they sing. If they keep singing. How does one keep singing, bird or human? How does one? How? There must be ways-- there must be recipes and tips and tied-up tricks for those who encapsulate sorrow, heaps and heaps of dusty brown books locked up in library towers that you stumble upon only after climbing 67 flights of winding stairs; perhaps-- perhaps! entitled: "The Joy Of Finding One's Voice (Once More); For The Lost, Vol. 1, 2, 3 and infinity"--
I'd like a first edition copy.