Sometimes I feel like Heidi coming home to her village. All along the valley there are cries, Heidi is coming home, Heidi is coming home, church bells are ringing, even the brook is ringing. The bag lady stops rustling through her bag. The man under the huge overcoat stops snoring. Sometimes I feel like Bogart. Sitting with my drink, an Egyptian cigarette dangling from my lips. I’m cursing my luck at seeing you again. It’s like that dream where you walk into the room and I wake up. Then I fall asleep and you’re putting the flowers you brought into a vase, then I wake up. Sometimes I feel like Frankenstein. I’m staring at my strange hand, my strange leg, I’m all made up of different people and I’m wondering if they ever knew each other.