Stepping one foot in front of the other,
I glimpse at the microphone.
It was a lion, the microphone that is.
And I.
I, who was frightful.
I, who was easily intimidated.
I, who was lost,
did not want to walk to the microphone no more.
I am lamb,
and lamb don’t fight lions.
I knew that and so did they.
They with their wine glasses emptying and
they with their recorders.
I am both the frightful lamb and the fish out of water.
But now, now I am fish.
Silently gasping for air far too above water.  
“When do crows fly?”
That was the first.
The first lyric,
the first judgement,
the first second recorded while they emptied their wine glasses
while I gasp for air,
like the fish I am.
Frightful like the lamb I am.
But then.
Then I breathe, and with breathing comes her.
Her with her suffocating love, love, love.
The suffocating love that got me here.
Here in front of the microphone
The lion.
Because she told me I could.
She told me I will,
because I can.
Then I take another breath.
The same breath I took at breakfast,
when she put an omelette in front of me.
The omelette that she gave me,
before she told me she loved me and that I could.
Before she threw me in front lion.
And here.
Here I am in front of my microphone.