I admire the depressed.

For they had awoke from the dream.

others think them sad,

melancholy.

But they have seen

though the veil,

and into the world unknown.

They have beaten the sunshine and

passed up the field of flowers

or the danceing children;

consumed in what they want to feel.

Depression is down-to-earth,

Crazy, a premontion.

II

Have you ever felt a piece of cloth,

worn by years of use?

It is as beautiful as the wonder around us.

A piece cut into

a simple square, humbled in the name

of years in service.

So many washing it had recieved,

the fibers have softened from cotton into silk,

tumbleweed into thistledown.

I looks lighter than air,

cool and reasureing.

Its years of use as a shirt has implanted memory upon memory

of human skin, softer than it

itself could ever hope to be,

so thin, yet quite thick though and though

to be practicable in this world.

But the thing that impressed it the most was

the warmth.

Oh, it itself was good for covering, but it itself

was became cold and lifeless.

Human skin had heat from beneth,

and some parts of a human were toughfer than others.

The best thing about the human race after that was

the feel of hair.

Thousands upon thousands of minute, colorless stands

of hair.

But when they all come together,

almost every color in Nature was there.

Black, brown, hazel, blonde, ash, gray, white, red, orange.

And that was just a few!

But when itself had been removed from the shirt,

It had been a clenser of glass.

Glass was something, a duty to fufill all the same,

But glass was more minute than nothing

Compared to humans.

Itself was sure that all the pieces same as it self

Had mostly the same wish, the same dream.

To be that close to humans again.

For it was like nothing on Earth,

The Universe,

And the Galaxy;

Nothing.