I don’t know. I’m not naive as I once was, though part of me is. There’s this willow tree inside of me––my head, that is. And she’s so whimsical. She holds this wisdom. She’s my god. This willow tree is my God. And I am the willow tree. And I know how things work. But I have this little girl named Ophelia in my head too. And she dances around my tree. She dances among the wildflowers. And she has love in her eyes. Every now and then a gardener comes to tend to the willow and girl. She’s beautiful, the gardener is. Her hair flows as the willows leaves in the wind. Her soul as deep as her olive green eyes. She’s a healer. Her skin is decorated with intricate patterns. And these patterns tell stories. They tell her stories. She teaches the little girl. Ophelia hasn’t been hurt. She’s hurt people before, but she’s like a bird. And she was never meant to be caged. And if she does get caged, and my gardener stops coming around, then the magic will leave, and as the gardener loses her pattern, the once-naive girl will lose her magic, and then my willow tree becomes just another tree. And I die before I’ve lived.