You believe in magnifying glasses. You think there are things that you can see through; you think that sometimes tings are larger than other things because of your own perception, for no good reason of their own. You are bad at giving credit where credit is due. If you were given ten gold cards, and told to hand each one out to a person that deserved it, you would paste them to your wall in a circle and marvel at the rise of the sun. You are problematic. But you do these things because you look towards your own foundations and they are weak and suspicious and not yet made of bone. You do these things because you exist on a plane of rainbows and roses and you are hungry. You are not all bad. You are cute. I like you, I like you more than the deposed monarchies of imaginary nation states. I like you more than Monarch butterflies, or moths. I like you more than the first beam of sunlight on a cold winter morning, even if I am not wearing slippers, even if I am craving, like a desperate cat, the sun. No matter your motivations, never mind your trouble—I think better of you than I think of genuine vine-ripened tomatoes, grown on my own balcony. I like you more than mozzarella marinated in pesto and fed to me, in torn chunks, by a lithe, lovely hausfrau who has promised to clean every last one of my dishes. You believe that I am just saying these things to make you feel better but I have my own fish to fry, and let me tell you: halibut. Perch. Sardine. I am about to drink coffee and I am about to make toast and I have no time this morning for any words but a pure, sweet, unencumbered "hello".