The problem with an orange tree in Greece whose perfume fills the straights between Poros and Kimon’s Peloponessos is the peace of beauty radiating always close, which never can respond but does its part, issuing hope to make me live. It makes it come from me. The problem with the heart, a tool of time, is want can never speak. The problem with the brain is darkness. It has no self-lamp or sun to give it place. Silent friend in heaven, the problem is I love you, and, like every love, far space creates intensity yet it rains spit on us. I am an outrage until you rise.