I want to go blow bubbles in a pretty graveyard. Alice, and Strawberry Hill, and the rest are important, I will take you there, and try to be silent enough, but also say enough, to show you what I mean because I don't go swimming here, and the ocean here is your's not mine. Last time I felt fearless I was told I was repressing my sadness, that my energy was anger under pressure, but I'd like to get back there. I have a habit of living in fear, I'm sure I'll find new things to break over. It's not pessimism, it's statistics, which isn't to say it's written in the stars. Although if it was you couldn't read them from the inside of a city anyway. I'm trying to remember to speak up. I'd like you to hear me. I guess that means I have to give you the chance to.