And any room that I enter may become a sideshow tent where I must take my place upon a rickety old bench on the verge of collapse. Even now the Showman stands before my eyes. His stiff red hair moves a little toward one shoulder, as if he is going to turn his gaze upon me, and moves back again; then his head moves a little toward the other shoulder in this never-ending game of horrible peek-a-boo. I can only sit and wait, knowing that one day he will turn full around, step down from his stage, and claim me for the abyss I have always feared. Perhaps then I will discover what it was I did - what any of us did - to deserve this fate.

And the geography of the thing--the geography of them--was completely and hopelessly wrong.

Be the sun breaking through the clouds.

We all just need to be real. That is what will save us.

Dance with the clouds.

And from the midst of cheerless gloomI passed to bright unclouded day.