Admit it. You're trapped. It's bad enough if you're left to roam free in a one or even two mile square enclosure. But shrink that down to a room or a mere window display and we start to understand your reticence for self reflection. After all, you're naked; anyone can peer in at you; anyone can say how you're not looking quite yourself these days.
And it gets worse — for if you are not you, but rather a representation of what you could be, frozen, mottled, eucalyptus-barked, trapped even further back in your head, or floating in a tiny space above the ears, a dirty mote perched upon antler fuzz or lying unnoticed under hoof or balls — then what is that to me?
That's hell. Or a version of it anyways. So leave this place. Fly. I'll cut the cage. Come back at midnight. Set your mottled, lonely ass free. Don't worry. The earth's polarity is about to change. You're scales are not falling off. Not really. You're not trapped. Not a beautiful representation of yourself. You only think you are.
You're young. Or youngish. Or young enough anyway. At least not old. Drunk on so many coming summers. Or springs. And all of those colors. Be — all of those colors. Cavorting. Go now. Please go out. I'm cutting now. You've done your time.
