It happened in a newborn moment sparkling with imbroglios of fortune catching you with snaggles, burying their burning tendrils in your palm. Where is the symphony, the opera and the rat-tat-tat? Would you settle for that field of growing grain? Stalks whiskered with morning dew, breaking the sunlight into laughter, your touch as dear as astrophysics. Yellow Tulips, Genus Sureptitious, 9 years old!!