Her skin has a motile pigment; my thoughts resolve more than the sun on her, on her endless carryings-on. You have been warned, and warmed, friend. Miles away, you’ll drink your courage clear, radiant, with an accent on judgement. And Paris will seem so close, but she left that riverbank long before I knew she was right. She won't believe me, anymore, but she may listen to you. Especially if you kiss her on the forehead, and stroke her hair as she slips away. I am waiting for you to tell me what the question was, then. You can ask anything of me, without fear of judgement or an answer.