Who am I? Am I a poet perhaps? No, of course not. No word but one, a very strange one, does the pen of this soul of mine write for me: folly. Am I a painter then? Not even that. No colour but one does the palette of this soul of mine hold for me: melancholy. A musician then? Not a chance. No note but one does the keyboard of this soul of mine have for me: sentimentality. Am I….what then? I place a lens in front of my heart for all the world to see. Who am I? The jester of this heart of mine.
