Once again I tried to turn myself from Vinegar to Wine – young wine, allowing you to truly taste the bouquet of flavors, but I failed. Perhaps I must first become Water. Then to grow the grapes. To know thirst unquenchable, and to raise a toast. Perhaps then, I might become what I long to be.
Wine of the same bottle, but it tastes better from your cup than from my own. I am blessed, but you are blessed better. Look in the mirror, you say, before speaking again. And so I look at my reflection, ready to take his eye out in envy. That is no way to live.
Let the water wash away the guilt from your hands, but beware, it is ice-cold. I tried washing it all away but my hands froze. New blood, new blood to warm them, to hold what I love in my own hands, but where to find it? Where?
There is some wisdom to be found here. Yet another crude rock to polish until it shines brightly. See, the hands of my mind are tireless. Be patient, the master said, and you will see the body of your enemy carried downstream by the river.