I wrote the perfect piece, a poem willing to throw reason to the wind, to be small in its quatrain sense, like poison dissolved in a drink by Debussy. You poisoned my explanation. I listened to you on afternoons when the faintest sounds competed with your song, a melody which let itself descend straight down. Why didn't I resist the torture? The sweetest notes are notes few and say with almost no sound the whole nostalgic sky on top of you: obedient, yet saying goodbye. I should have run to a major key, been loud, unashamed, spit in the idol's eye! But I am murmuring here, a colorist, evaporating, glad the last leaves of trees are deciding everything.