Sometimes I’m true to myself. Like when I buy rose and violet-scented soap as presents, and keep it for myself. Or go out onto the balcony at night for a moon-bath without a stitch on. Or wear earrings under my hair just for the feel of them, or hang half out the window to see a rainbow.
    The same goes when I make up stories about foam islands in the bath, or eat acorns to find out what they taste like. But it’s especially so when, by the fire that ‘only causes work and dust’ I feel behind me millennia of people watching the flames through my eyes.