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Music at times melancholy, faint, like dusk, soft, sad and slow. And then sometimes the morning so bright, only dancing will do. Sometimes, on wings wild to fly, sometimes, just waiting around to die. Like a cat on dew drenched grass stepping lightly, gingerly, as if the straws of sunshine beneath our tender toes will break and take the joy in vapors of dust to the whispy winds, blown yonder and gone; What we've failed to find in our fancy flirts with natures creator is, She loves to dance! slow, and fast. No matter what else you take from this little life, learn to love more than one thing.