BOOK REVIEW - Signs of Life: A Memoir in Poems

A diverse collection of poetry, thought-provoking and breathtaking, inspirational, and altogether wonderful, Knowles’ memoir is moving, hustling the reader through memories and philosophies that had me laughing at times and weeping at others. Engaging, unexpectedly page-turning for long-time lovers of poetry, and eye-opening to those discovering poetry for the first time, these verses, sometimes eloquent and elusive, sometimes brutally honest and abrasive, will draw you into the ancient art of poetry and leave you hungry for more. The author leads the audience, expertly, through a journey simultaneously spiritual and rational. Like a depthless ocean of free-thought, it tossed me back and forth, presenting views on both faith and logic, but it never fails in thoroughness, sincerity, or heart. The poet’s captivating imagery, descriptions of nature, metaphorical prowess, and artful rhyme schemes are a treat for anyone with an appreciation of literary devices. To those who merely dabble, occasionally, in poetry, this is a delightful read, a perfect escape for anyone who wants to ponder life’s realities without managing their own. It is an intimate self-examination. Often romantic and heartwarming, pieces such as Rede, Morning Light, and Married to You reveal the subtle truths of real love, while others like Because of You, On a Cold November Day, and I Remember You provide poignant memories and warm musings on the meaning of family and the generous nature of motherhood. Knowles is and does it all: a free spirit and a dedicated mentor, a mother and a child, a lover and a warrior battling the rawest hardships known to the human heart. For me, many of the edgier pieces, such as Ashes, Rebellious by Nature, and Safe were found to be excellent nourishment in the face of life’s frustrations. This collection is relatable in its advocating for independence coupled with its dismay at a life of self-inflicted isolation, speaking easily of how life transforms gradually. Knowles reflects on the human condition and the role of both human relationships and the relationship with self in her slice of life verses, such as Book Tribe, Snow Day, Apprentice, and Little Dog. Between these pages, clumsy beginnings exist beside true gems like Endless Night and triumphs of visual poetry such as Entropy, Tomb, And Peaceful Harbor. In each passages, I discovered descriptions of a truly unique, subtly desperate life, underlying with unprecedented adventure. The life of a Bohemian atheist. She is wild, yet wise, and her words are both fantastic and contemplative, with a flair for rebellion and an appetite for knowledge. Above all, through the roller coaster emotions, Signs of Life is uplifting and positive, constantly looking back, but never ceasing to move forward. Truly, there is something in this book for everyone.

Art

As the new year begins, I find myself contemplating art. Though we’ve all heard that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and art is subjective, I’ve come to discover that art—and its value, both intrinsic and sentimental—is even more complex than I originally thought.
Having attended art school, I’d like to think I know quite a bit about art; I’ve studied color theory, painting techniques, graphic design, animation, traditional and digital media, along with art history. When I look at a piece of art, even if it’s merely stock photography in an office lobby, I can articulate exactly what I see, how the piece affects me on an emotional level, and even what’s working and what isn’t. In a sense, I am able to make a judgment call on whether or not it’s good art.
For all that though, it is still impossible to pin down what’s going to be a popular piece of art and what’s going to fail miserably. As an artist, posting my work on line has always proven to be especially confounding. At times, a piece I personally love and feel deeply connected to will garnish absolutely no attention, even if it’s perfectly executed; in other cases, something I put a minimal amount of effort into and don’t particularly care for myself will receive unprecedented adulation. Congruent with my level of popularity at least. The only constant I’ve found throughout this process is that often fanwork gleans a bit more views than my original pieces, a travesty in and of itself.
I myself am a lover of fanart, and yet it sometimes seems as if people are so blinded by the piles of art depicting their favorite fictional characters that they can’t be bothered to get interested in something new. Out of this comes a natural demand upon me as an artist—I need to stand out, I have to wow them, I have to incorporate something into my style that will distinguish me from the crowd. All these things I learned during my three years of learning about the ruthless art industry, and I have no choice but to believe it. If I want to truly stand out, I must improve.
Unfortunately, the problem in this solution is that art is indeed subjective, and there is no standard for aesthetic. Therefore, it’s impossible to say what it is about my art exactly that needs to be changed. Is it simply my skill set isn’t where it needs to be? Or could it be my style is unappealing? I’ve considered the possibility that my content is boring, and yet I deeply enjoy creating it.
A standard recipe for success in this world of ours is to watch those who have succeeded and mimic them; in that case, it stands to reason that I could simply mimic the artists I see who are doing well, learn to emulate their style, abandon my own, fall into the digital media trend, and manufacture art of formerly established characters in a predictable and overused design. For that matter, I could devote all my artistic ability into drawing smut for well-liked ships, and I know for a fact my own popularity would skyrocket. That seems to be what the modern audience wants to see, so why not give them what they want and reap the benefits of following a proven formula?
And yet my very spirit despises the notion. Art is the language of one’s soul, an intimate and indescribable depiction of who the artist truly is, and my art is the rawest form of me that exists in this world. It speaks of a part of myself which even I don’t understand. A part of me which cannot be explained in any words we know.
If I were to change my style, my media, my subject matter, my art for the fleeting satisfaction of internet popularity, I would be denying myself a soothing self-expression which I need to survive. I would be turning my back on myself. Selling out.
I may not always stand out amongst the crowd, but when it comes to following my own heart or becoming popular, I will always stand up against the crowd. I will trudge forward, and I will try new things, learn new techniques while polishing the ones I know already; I will experiment with different styles and ideas, content and medias. There are so many facets of art yet to explore, and I wouldn’t deny myself the pleasure, but I will always create art I enjoy and care about, art I can be proud of, and I know that if I persevere, over time I will meet people who enjoy my art for what it is as well. Those people will be speaking my language.

The Times Have Changed

I'm not even sure when my last post was, but I do know that my life is very different than it was when I began this blog. I've moved twice. All my family seems very far away. My 'new job' is now my 'old job' and my 'new-new job' sucks. I've given up on the pursuit of animation because it's no longer something I want--I don't think myself a quitter, but I need to find something else that will make me happy. Or at least something I can live with. Unfortunately I have no more ambitions and no definite plans. I tell people I might transfer to a different college in the fall, but I only say that so they'll be satisfied and won't question me. I hate to be questioned in matters of my own life. I hate to be told how to live. Albeit, I don't myself know how I should be living; all the more reason why I don't see how anyon else could have a better idea of how I should be proceeding with life. I suppose for now I just want to do the best I can and continue on my endless search for that mythological dream called happiness.

Recently, my favorite teacher at school died. He was a great man, a hard-nosed man, but a good man just the same, with a giving heart and a genuine concern for his students. I wish his death didn't distress me--I wish I could look at it objectively as the death of someone I didn't actually know well--but truth be told, I care more than I let on. He was a mentor of mine, and he was one of the few people I've met who I honestly believed when he said he cared what became of me. Once he tried to advise me on my future, and although I'm not sure if I appreciated that, his words have stayed with me. If nothing else, they leave me uncertain about the way I am currently living: paycheck to paycheck without goals or purpose, just surviving.

But perhaps surviving is good enough for me. Perhaps it is what is suitable for a wretch like me. A nine to five job with no one to come home to and no career to be proud of, that might be what I am destined for, if destiny does indeed exist.

It's seems silly now to have this blog at all. Why should I think that anyone would be interested in reading my strange and dismal thoughts? In fact, why should anyone be interested in reading anyone else's thoughts, dismal or otherwise? Never the less, I will continue blogging, if only for my own satisfaction. I have always enjoyed composing my thoughts, after all.

My father is far away now, as he always seems to be, and some days I miss his guidance more than others. Some days, I miss him more than I can bear. I don't know if I will ever get past the feeling that I have been utterly abandoned, or if gradually this too will fall away into the abyss of apathy that appears to be devouring my life. Slowly, I care less and less for the things and people around me, and I find myself standing in a very small circle, surrounded by a mere handful of people I honestly care for: my parents, my siblings, and one or two uncommonly close friends. Some days I feel that the rest of the world can go to hell, as long as that small circle of people stays near me. Is it wrong to feel that way, or all we all animals, struggling to survive and hanging on as tightly as we dare to the people who we love?

If only I could percieve this world differently. If only it could appear to me as more than this cold, rainy globe of danger I see before me. The ignorant truly are happiest, for they shall never know the corruption that plagues this race, and they shall never know the heartache of being truly human, being never truly satisfied, born to die in pain.

As things stand now, I am alone, and yet more than loneliness, I feel great anger that, at times, I cannot even direct in the appropriate direction. It seems to spread to every bit of my life, and I want to lash out at everything. My cynicism and my hate thickens as time goes by and life refuses to get better. I hop between the frying pan and the fire constantly, alternating between contentment, irritation and depression. Some day, the fire may burn me away. Or some day, I may burn myself away, and leave an ugly, black scar upon this world.

As if I should be so lucky, that the world would remember me for even the briefest of moments. I am constantly living in a dream, I think--some Disney-concieved fantasy land--where some day what I do and think, my very existence itself, may actually amount to something. It is much more likely that I will pass as billions of humans before me have pass: meaningless and easily forgotten.

New World

This world is falling down around me
And I can’t tell what’s water
And what’s just tears.
Why should I be the one who’s sad and angry?
Why do I have to be the one who’s lonely and scared?
I miss the days when I was little, when you
Could wrap me in your arms and numb my deepest fears.
Now I see I was a fool for thinking I could count on you.
I was a fool for honestly believing that you cared.
I don’t want this anymore. Not this pain and not this strife.
Because it hurts so much, and you don’t even know,
Like a knife wound to my heart.
I didn’t ask for this.
Such a long journey for so little, just to find that in the end
You weren’t worth it.
So take your imaginary curse and shove it up your ass.
Forget me.
Forget that I exist, so that I can forget that you exist.

If I could have it my way, you would have walked away years ago.
Forever.
You would have vanished into the sun,
Disintegrated into the sand.
Then I wouldn’t have to feel this bite of apathy.
I wouldn’t have to go through this, your leaving,
Over and over and over.
I don’t want to follow you all over, just to see if you’re going to start to care.
And I shouldn’t have to be the one
Who sits and cries alone, who wonders what it’s like
To be happy.
To be truly happy.
All because of you.
If only I had been born as someone else,
Then I wouldn’t know you, and you wouldn’t be able to hurt me.
So you can go away, and you can take your new life,
Go to your new world and leave me in the old.
And you can do whatever you want there, and let my face fade away.
And I can walk away into this city, and stand under the iron
and the sun
And see if it devours me.
See if it takes my blood.
And then I can watch you drift away, like a photograph in time,
And I can say I knew my father once, and that he left.
Then I’ll just be a statistic, just another homeless waif,
And everyone will pity me, and throw it in your face.
Then some day I won’t need you anymore, and the wound will scar,
And the pain will fall away.
Then I’ll be stronger still—stronger than you could ever be.
And who will I have to thank for that?
Not you—but Me.

But…

But I did want you so bad.
I did want you beside me amidst the pain and the darkness,
When the only sound I heard was screaming in the night,
When the fear was thick as blood,
And the helplessness was a cloud of fog,
That I could nearly cut into with a knife.
So tangible, so palpable, like a slash across my heart,
Like the tears on my cheeks.
I close my eyes and think ‘If only you had been there.’
And even now I think, ‘If only you could be there.’
All I ever wanted was just to be near you, if only for a moment,
If only to smell you and hear your voice, and pretend that I was safe.
Pretend you could protect me.
I just wanted you in my life,
Now I’m just scared you’ll walk away and never come back,
You’ll go to your new world with your new woman,
And you’ll forget that I ever existed.

Sometimes
I have flashbacks, like in a movie or a dream.
I see flashes of you: running beside the car, making promises you can’t keep,
Walking out of the house, with that suitcase in your hand,
Crying.
I see you at my graduation. I see you at my birthday.
I feel your hand on my shoulder as I sit at grandma’s funeral.
And I wonder ‘Where did all that go?’
Why is there so much pain between you and I?

I am not my mother. Everything she said, everything she did,
However deep she sank her claws in,
Whatever black thoughts she provoked in you
They’re not mine. That’s not me.
I love you. I love you with all my heart.

You can’t keep me in the dark like this:
I’m done.
I’m shaking off your shackles, now,
I’m walking to the sun.
And you’re going to the new world.And I am just the old.
You’ll forget about me, somewhere between mountains and sky,
I’ll just be someone that you knew once.
And you’ll just be the biggest scar on my heart.
So walk into the new world. Take your woman. Take your dog.
Kiss me goodbye, leave me without a dime.
I don’t need you anymore:
And I’ll take down your picture, and I’ll forget your voice.
I’ll call you up some Christmas, or your birthday.
By then this pain will be numb,
I hope,
And you’ll be
The most painful thing in my past.

Walking on a Snowy Day

I like to walk alone, especially in weather that most people consider bad, because I enjoy the solitude of my own, private thoughts. As I walk through the streets of downtown Denver, partly walking for the hell of it, and partly for the purpose of buying batteries and coffee, it’s barely drizzling, a faint spray of leftover rain spattering across my face, and I’m in no hurry. Batteries are essential. Coffee is not. But I like to have a hot drink on a crisp day. And no day has ever been crisper than this one: the sky is gray and overcast, the way I like it best, and there are deep, shivering puddles created from the driving rain that came earlier. It’s a good day for smoking, I think, but I refrain because I’ve been smoking too much lately.
All around me the buildings tower, like great, metallic trees, and I feel that I’m lost in a concrete jungle. There is such singularity in walking by myself through the city streets, a poetry to being among so many people, and yet utterly alone. In a way, I prefer that loneliness to the laughter and companionship of others, and I often wonder if there’s something missing inside me—whatever it is that drives human beings to seek one another out.
I know there’s not, and yet, just the same, today, with the cold rain on my face, and the chill air in my lungs, I feel strong and alive, and I’m glad that I’m alone. I’m glad there’s no one to complain about the weather and the city I love so much. Glad there’s no overprotective man to put his arm around me in a futile attempt to keep me warm. I feel braver than the ones who duck inside from the rain, stronger than those holding umbrellas above their dry heads. In truth, I’m likely lacking some mandatory form of common sense—sense to come in out of the rain. I’ve gotten along find without it for twenty years, and I don’t need it now.
I keep walking, pulling my boyfriend’s hat down over my eyes and crossing streets at my leisure. There are puddles everywhere—some shallow, some deep. I like to walk through them, and I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s the child in me that’s not died yet, or perhaps it has more to do with my unexplainable to desire to ignore what other people consider proper, and to go against any grain I find. To buck authority and popular trends. Not that hopping over puddles is a trend.
It’s not quite raining when I reach Walgreens, and my hair’s not even damp. I can’t help feeling a bit disappointed. Still, I came for batteries, so I go inside from the weather and spend thirty minutes talking myself in and out of buying things, until I make my final selections—two packs of batteries on sale for a good price, and a Ben Stiller movie—and step into the line. I toy with the idea of buying a cigarette lighter, but I just bought one I like last night and don’t need another.
The weather has not changed much when I leave Walgreens, and I’m beginning to think that perhaps the weathermen were wrong about the snow that’s supposed to hit. Unless it cools off, the rain will likely just die, and tomorrow the sun will shine.
And now it’s time for coffee. Coffee is something I’m not addicted to, yet, and like cigarettes, I try to only have it on special occasions: days like this are perfect. I think about where I want to buy it as I walk. Initially I was thinking I’d buy it at the new café down the street, just to spite Starbucks, but I spent more money that I meant to in Walgreens, so I opt for 711 instead, make a quick U-turn to go back a block.
711 turns out to be a bit disappointing. They don’t have the creamer I like, and I’m hungry, so I spend nearly fifteen minutes reminding myself that I shouldn’t waste money on food. Though, at home Vicki hasn’t been making dinner lately; that annoys me, and part of me feels that if I buy my own food it will be a mild retaliation. At last I overcome my urge to spend money frivolously and escape with naught but the coffee.
Outside, the storm has picked up. What falls from the sky is not quite rain, but neither is it snow. I’d call it sleet, except that it’s characterized by tiny ice crystals, a bit like hail. It’s not accumulating yet, and maybe it won’t, but as I walk it coats my shoulders and the front of my hoodie, likely my backpack and my boyfriend’s hat as well. Still, I’m in no hurry. The coffee is warm for now, and I walk with my eyes fixed on the sky where the snow is driving down from. I assume the people I pass think I’m an air-headed kid for keeping my eyes always above me, but then I correct myself, doubting that I’m that remarkable. In fact, most of them likely pass me without noticing I exist. That’s how the city is. That’s how humanity is. We are all faceless strangers to one another.
I breathe deeply. I can see my breath steaming before my face, and I like that. The weather has picked up, so there are very few people out now. I like that as well. I pass a man who’s smoking and I can smell the tobacco: it makes me want a cigarette as well, and I almost reach for one before I stop myself. Not today.
My hair is getting wet now. I have a hood, but I’m not wearing it, and I’m not wearing it on purpose. If I wanted to wear it I would put it up, but I like the feel of the sleet on my neck. The coffee’s getting cold as well, rather quickly. Snow drops hit the lid and melt immediately, covering my cup with dew so that when I lift it to take a drink the drops run down onto my face and off my chin.
It’s a marvelous day for walking—other people are cramming themselves onto the bus or hiding under shop awnings, but I like the walk. I like the chill in the air and the sleet falling from the sky. However, when I pass Barnes and Noble, and think about the smell of books inside, and the warmth of the café, I almost go inside, I must admit. There’s no time for that, I tell myself. I’m due back at the school by six, and it’s five now. I wouldn’t want to make him wait.
After all, I’m already taking my time, walking slowly, sloshing through puddles and waiting for the lights to change. I like to hesitate by the alleys and look down them and think about how much I love the city. I like walking.
Now my coffee is very cold, no longer keeping my hands warm, so I finish it quickly, dumping what little is left in my mouth. Drops run down my face, but I don’t know if it’s the snow or coffee dripping from the lid. I wipe it away. The sleeve of my hoodie is soaked and does me little good. By this time I probably look miserable, but I’m feeling fine. I’m thinking rainy days are so much more interesting than sunny ones, good not only for walking, but also for holing up somewhere to write or read or watch a movie. Even if the power goes out this is perfect weather for just lying in bed and listening to music.
It’s coming down harder than ever, and I’m passing the bus station on Colfax where I can smell reefer. I know that people like to sell weed there, because I’ve stood there before, debating whether or not to get on the bus, and if so, which bus to take. It makes me want to smoke even more, and I wonder if I could even get my cigarette to light in this wind. It doesn’t matter—I’m not going to smoke today.
I see a man and a woman together and I wonder what it’s like to be in love with someone. I wonder if I’ll ever feel it, and if I like it. Before I’ve feared that I’m not fit to be loved, and that I’m not capable of love, but I’m not sure why. I fear the coldness inside me more than I fear anything else, and at the same time, I’m not sure how real it is.
By the time I cross thirteenth, the snow is beginning to accumulate on the sidewalks, and I’m ready to dry off. I hope vaguely that my brother and sister might have come up from the Springs to visit, but I don’t expect it. Chances are, the weather stopped them, even if they meant to come. I miss them very much.
I must be capable of love—why should I be exempt from that emotion when everyone else can feel it? And I do love my brother and sister.
There’s no waiting for lights now: I make my way concisely back to school. I’m convinced now that my siblings are at home waiting for me, though I hardly know why, and I don’t want to keep them waiting. We have to spend as much time together as we can, while we still have the chance.
Back at school, I dispose of my empty coffee cup and go inside. In the bathroom, I dry off as best as I could—I shake the water out of my hair and brush the snow from my backpack and my boyfriend’s hat. I slide that into the backpack at last. It will be safer there. I feel the need to keep it safe because it’s not mine. It’s his.
I wonder why I always hope people will give things to me freely when I know very well that that’s not the way this world works. I don’t need another hat. I’m not even sure why I have it—I just know he put it on my head one sunny day just before I was climbing into the Jeep, and he’s never accepted it back; I’ve tried to return it. It’s not that I don’t want it. I simply don’t understand why he thinks I should have it. I suppose girlfriends wear their boyfriends’ clothing. I suppose that’s why he thinks I should have it.
There’s no hope of drying off here, but I take my pills and slide my hoodie back on, secure my phone and MP3 player. When I get home it will be nice to take a hot shower. I don’t dare to hope for hot food though. That seems to be too much to ask for these days, though I have no idea why.
Everything is in place now. The hat is safe, the coffee is gone, and the snow outside is heavier than ever.
The weathermen were right.

Pretense

I guess it doesn't really matter to me anymore. This is the way things are, thanks to you, and I can't change them. I'm so sick of it. She's always before me, what she wants is so much more important than what I want--somehow it makes me feel like I don't exist in the first place. We don't buy orange juice because she can't drink it, we never have red meat, there are so many days now where there's no dinner at all, even after I've had a ten hour school day or an eight hour work day, and she's been at home doing nothing. She even interferes with things you've promised me, things I rightfully deserve. Even the dog takes precedence over me, or you wouldn't ask me to sacrifice part of my vaction to stay in Denver and watch it. I'm sick of being the last fucking thing on the totem pole. I'm not the fucking omega wolf. Not when she's so weak and I have to be so strong.
For the life of me, I can't figure out why she's more important than I am. She whines and bitches and you expect me to help around the house--why the fuck should I? She hasn't done anything all day, and the last thing I want to do when I get home from work or school is clean up her dirty kitchen or scrub your piss off the toilet stool. I don't know if she's noticed this at all, but she's more or less a housewife, and those are the things housewives are supposed to do; and if she's not even cooking dinner, what the hell is she doing?
You said she does a lot for us, but I can't see how. Maybe she does a lot for you, like in the bedroom or something, but not for me. I feel alienated and estranged by her. I feel oppressed and neglected and ignored.
I wish I could tell you all these things, so at least you'd understand how I feel, even if you can't fix it. But you just turn around and tell her everything, like a fucking middle school girl. It's like I can't trust you at all. Maybe it would be different if she were my mother, but she's not. And I'm not twelve.
I've tried so hard to get to know you, but you just mock me and tell me to get over things that are important to me. Things I need to care about. As far as I can tell, you've done your damndest to change my world view and indoctrinate me with your own ideas, which was something I never wanted. Part of me fears you've succeeded.
Whatever. It doesn't matter. You're moving away soon--you're just going to leave me, and then all my hard work will be for nothing. You're going to take her and go away, and I'll stay here and try to remember why I was so angry with you. I know I'm going to wish I'd told you all this--the reality will become grayed out in my memory, and I'll forget why I felt like I couldn't. Even more so, I'll regret not telling you this:
I don't want you to go, more than anything else, I don't want you to leave me again. After all this time, we're finally together again, and you're just going to run out on me, like you did before. I can't even tell you how much I hate that, because I'm afraid you won't care, and because I know it won't matter. Regardless of what I want, you have to go, and I have to stay.
So I wish I could tell you these things, about how I feel or how it hurts, about how I feel misunderstood and forgotten. Especially about how I feel like the last person in the world you care about. I wish I could tell you that I think she's come between us and that you've been somewhat unfair to me in order to make life comfortable for her.
But after almost two years, I think I finally know you, and I know from past experience--or rather I fear that history will repeat itself--and that you don't care very much about how I feel, and you refuse to make the needed effort to change yourself, or your life, or the way you interact with me, even for the sake of my happiness. I'm afraid you're just going to laugh at me and mock me all over again, and tell me I'm foolish and sentimental. Maybe you'll tell me to get over it.
So I don't care anymore. Put her before me. Have everything you want and leave me behind. I guess I have to come to terms with it: these other things are important to you. You have a new life, with a new woman and a new house and big, new plans, and I am part of your old life. The child of the woman you once loved. I suppose in my childishness, I believed I could become part of this new life, and that there would be room for me beside you. After all, I'm your daughter.
But I was wrong. There is no room for me. You don't miss your old life, and you don't want it back. You're going to go away and forget about me all over again, and there's not a damn thing I can do but to stay silent.
And pretend like I don't care.

Best of the Best

Everyone loves you and we all know it. You're a breath of summer in a deadly winter, a gust of fresh air. You are a bright, yellow sun, rolling across a blue, cloudless sky. You flop my frown around, you remind me things are good, you always make my day--you always know just what to say. In every situation you are the voice of reason, always sensible, always cautious. I can always count on you, and I know I can trust you. I'm glad you feel like you can trust me too. Adventure in a can: pull the top open and out you pop, ready to sweep me away to wherever you're going, determined to have fun while you're at it. Even on the most serious business trips. You are insurmountable and unstoppable, never allowing any obstacle to overcome you, never letting go of the promises you've made. Not to yourself, and not to others. You've shown me truly, and much more deeply than anyone else, exactly what friendship is; so now I don't have to be afaid to fall anymore, because I know there's someone down below, watching, ready to catch me. I don't have to be afraid to be left behind: Wherever you go, whatever you do, follow your heart, and I'll be right beside you. Should something happen and I never see you again, rest assured, and remember that you will always be my friend.