Do you watch me pass by, little bird, every day from your perch weighed down by your curiosity, or is this the first we’ve met? I hate to be so oversimplified, but you have your father’s looks, and these eyes are not accustomed to the hues in your feathers. Am I as a cloud, distant and irrelevant so long as the sun shines and the wind stays at bay? Or am I some deity, some ethereal being that both is and is not, a chimera of all that you’ve never understood beyond your branch? Tell me, little friend, do I speak to your soul as intimately as you do to mine? And will we meet again tomorrow?