The pub thinks my stories are getting longer. This one certainly bites the bit. I just wanted it to be magical, but I keep plotting the dip. Melancholy, depression—let's profess them today. Let's get the grim reaper into fast gear and sail away to Led Zeppelin on his cloud sledge. This isn't a suicide note. I would be clear on that. This one is happy ending; the skeleton smiles are all in the day clouds. It’s always testing you apart, looking for some magic answer to question "how selfish is my heart?"