This is the finest flower in the world. It blossoms at the end of winter just as we are now, and its fragrance is so subtle yet the memories it evokes are full of contemplative horror. Like walking home from school past the house where the piano teacher lives and where the Daphne bloom profusely. On down the incline past the apartments made of sand where the old lady is killing a rat by holding it up in a birdcage and pouring boiling water on it. She stops for a moment as I walk by and smiles and bows. The smell of Daphne fills my nostrils flooding my childish essence with indescribable contentment. I stopped then bowed and greeted a polite hello to her as I continue on my way. As I go she resumes the watery execution. The child I was hoped that the rat experienced a moment of hope before its final merciful breath. Much like the promise spring holds for us before the torment of an arid desiccated summer again. And once more I have said too much for I dream the dreams of a small hairy chihuahua.