Amadeus, where art thou? For I see you by yonder tree, speaking
to the squirrel’s nut.
Amadeus where art thou? You’re no Romeo, yet you sit under yonder balcony, muttering
gibberish under the bush.
I write this to you in sweat, for I have no blood nor ink to send to yonder hill atop which
you fancy a stroll.
I don’t fancy writing this, really, for I don’t quite know what to say as you gaze
at the grassy window pane behind which the kraken sits.
Amadeus where art thou? For this is your plight.
You can make sense not of anything I write.