No, _{Rome wasn't built in a day}, says Skye Edwards, as I remember the first time I heard Morcheeba at the house of that girl who ‘almost’ shaved her head. Ah, but how good it felt to stroke her sparse light hair on those hot, boozy nights. It tickled my palm. She would look at me with her blue depths and laugh. She would also boast that this man or that man belonged to her. Yet she said that I was her best lover.
Of course I never believed her. I just let myself go. And so I woke up on weekends in her bed looking at the aerial roots of a tree that seemed magical to me. Threads of colour peeping out of the window, with the warm sun, creating daydreams all around.
She was the daughter of a College professor. It made me angry that I had to look at the face of this good woman, whose daughter was... the devil. Until one day when I nodded off in class and she said to me: you didn't get much sleep last night. She gave me a very brief nod with her left eye, smiled and patted me on the shoulder.

**

I seem to come from a past life where I was told: _{She can't love you like you love her}.
I barely remember how those words came to me, but I have the feeling of being on a black sand beach; it's getting dark and the sea is warm because I feel it coming to my feet as I try to string stars together. I have lived to put the pieces of the puzzle in place. I will have to reach that point where I am alerted and I understand and believe. Now I am here, intoxicated by the long night.

**

I always knew, from an early age, my path.

Always in the clouds, they said, or what a dreamer she is... that was another phrase that made me laugh. I simply kept quiet. I made a _promise to myself: that I would keep my wits about me, that I would arrive upright and still with a flame in my heart to where I know you are waiting for me, my future self. You may see me walking confidently, and at other times struggling with myself and my moments of weakness. But I am me, I will always be me until the end of time.