Orpheus drifts down the street like a wind blown seed searching for ground to plant itself. The strings of his guitar are broken, his fingernails need cutting. Reaching the pond he finds it's a painting! His whole life has been a myth! The artist grins as his canvas loses its corners, and collapses like a shroud without purchase. He knows that life asks nothing of us without time and purpose. Have I told you that last night I dreamed we'd adopted a child, a little girl, to hold your hand when you're alone?