You tell me you admire my 'work'. I nod, politely, and tell you the same... we speak about the weather, emotion, touching on each subject like a knife grazing the throat of its victim... never brave enough to pierce the surface... eventually you say that I'm 'Nothing like you imagined...' As if you had expected me to write in verse, to be consummed in darkness... I may be surrounded, but I will never be consummed... so don't act so surprised when I smile...