My soul feels weepy, if that seems sensible. There is a beauty seemingly missing from my myth, which remains vacant and it disappoints me. I feel cocooned…I am awaiting the metamorphosis…I long to be the butterfly, to flit in the wind. I tire of playing the worm. Always too young. Not quite aged. When is my grand debut? And if I decease prior to the scheduled date? Will it all have been for naught? In vain shall I have been procrastinated? And if I do survive to meet that grandiose stage? Will it have meaning? Does it even matter? If I flatter the maddened hatter?