I have no reason to live. But you already know that. 

And you will be the retreat of a smile, and a wave from the leaves. 

My mind is tricky, and I see talking heads a gray-robed figure. The heads chatter

but the figure lends me his hands.

My memories are memories. I am sure of little. I met a sailor today

who had white salty hair, matted in years of rank. His back was aching

and his fingers hurt from white-knuckling the helm. His eyes held a tempest tenfold. 

When we meet, I’ll be grateful. 

Do not look down, my son; it is horrible. We are like wheat in the tall grass, 

much the same and altogether different. 

And I am sure of that. I should be killed for this information, but one cannot give time away.

I was never a pilot. 

But I will walk without food or drink

I will walk for years until I choke on sand. As shades of purple, I’ll draw you a sheep. 

Because I look up to you, Little Prince, with tears in my eyes.

You laugh; and tomorrow I will wake up, whether I like it or not.