Little boy: patience, or, at least let yourself be. You don’t see the angels loving you, the humble intricacies of your snowflake, the mountain you pirouette from. I admonish you: love yourself, still, only if it be thine will, lest you deprive the least of your lovers of a tittle of your jot. Nurture yourself, breathe, grow, should it suit you. The bright Devil burns, still not yet God.