It is a Summer of goodbyes to songs of the heart from moments past, crying melodies of old hallelujahs. My new friends, you hold before you a Wayfarer no longer as young as could be, left painted by the sighing brushstrokes of many starry nights and many starry eyes now in fresh alignment.

My friends, I do not fit neatly into arms. I do not fit neatly into places. I do not take kindly to the lapping waters of sleep. I am a creature in revolt. Let me close enough to you to rest my hands on your breast, and I shall in time rip away the necklace you wear, because I see greater in you than heirlooms. And you will hate me. And I will be faring on my way, and I will let my hair fall over my eyes and ever dream that I might have been the ghost you might have loved.