Today I found your painting.

You call it the Garden of Everything.

I connect with it.

I see myself in it.

Your girl is me—surrounded by leaves and animals and hearts.

Or at least that's the way it should be.

I want to let go of this world

of schedule and power struggle,

of concrete and despair.

I want to stay awake all night,

lay in the grass and fall asleep

with that endless blanket of stars over me

until I get so close to the universe that I become mist.

I don't want to concern myself

with time or musts or have-to's.

If I want to chase tadpoles in the creek

I should be able to. If I want to smell roses

instead of working, nothing should stop me.

There is an air of childishness

and magic in your painting.

I see swamps and galaxies,

mists and jewels,

dragons and romance—

much more than what is visible.

It is because I am a dreamer.

My only concept of what is acceptable

has been forced on me.

I am not meant to follow orders

or stay still, or be quiet.

I am in your garden of everything,

your garden of dreams,

and your garden of wishes.