A creeping monotony sets in as you slowly inch towards the final months of your NS liability. Every night, you hide behind the guitar, hoping that it can protect you from the loneliness; the drudgery that life has become.

You feel like an old man and a little boy all at the same time, both looking for one thing.

One who walks through the clouds, with a circus mind that runs wild. Butterflies, moonbeams, zebras, and fairytales; riding with the wind.

A thousand smiles to give you, and anything you want. Anything.

Fly on, Little Wing.