I would race down that escalator if you were waiting for me at the bottom. I can envision throwing myself down the stairs, as perhaps a baby might on Christmas morning, if it meant getting to you faster. You were a beautiful muse for magnificent fantasies. I would have fought to live out each one, and share the thousand hugs, but, alas. I’m grateful for our moment in time llama, even if you spit dirty mud in my face, as llama’s will tend to do, I adored you. —Wolves’ eyes