Finding that the best of people have the tendency to forget which end of the heart is which, I find that my literary exercises may be drawing to a close; soon after I began to write I felt I had a calling on my heart as of an old friend reminding me of something more than a friend request: which is a strange way to answer a question.
Stranger still is to think that a heart can be had for a tune.
I had to revise the original tune as it started off upside down; and then after I had thought I had put it to rights it was far too complicated. And after all this effort I got told that I really aught to be normal and turn it into a song.
But I already wrote a song (which I have to rename) which others have listened to and given me encouraging words about (which has to do with walking around my garden watching the flowers grow and writing painstakingly edited unintelligible garbage).
Which I hope to do a recording of when the flowers start growing and my fingers thaw.
"I'm afeerd," said Sam Weller, "that ee wot was lookin fer long explainings o' these things wot we look into all day is goin' to be lookin to their hearts instead 'bout wot the genl'man had on his walls who didn' go outside nor look out a winder wen all his limbs was working jez fine."