I feel as I go into my room things which make me reflect upon lemon cracks in the sunlight and the burnt moon that lives in nothingness while old age comes to your mind, heart, and your soft, good face. I feel as I step into my eccentric chambers that I must find my way into a conquering eloquence, a Christmas for the veins of the new century drawn from the churchyards of the Fourteenth Century. It is just that there are not enough sonatas on the face of this planet, and I have not enough seaweed for your hair.