A Sparrow in a Cage, a Swallow Before the Hall

I am not a normal person.

I am sensitive to emotions, so I have been well protected,

and have never truly experienced what it feels like to feel something real.

I turn emotions stolen from elsewhere into novels. The prose is ornate, but hollow.

It feels as if I am trapped in an invisible cage, living in constant fear.

Perhaps Heaven took pity on me and granted me a fleeting, wondrous dream,

so that within this great dream I could break free of my cage and truly bloom, just once.

But…

(I originally wanted to call the book Bloom, but the title was already taken, so I’ll have to use this one for now.)