Apricity upon the dark hours. Never wend, like some vagabond of old. Montivagant, searching for that missing piece. Upon the rolling green, deep in the heathers. Naught but cloak and boot, and the knives of every night stabbing all resolution. Not so, and she is here. In dreams, her luminescence, the touch of her hand upon mine. In the morn, her look upon me. Smile, the curl of her lips, laughter. Hold her close, hear her heart, know it beats just as mine. As one, as in love, as it always will.
– Mitsuo Tanaka