You may be fond of my fresh perspective. My flourishing garden of ideas. But let me warn you, one day my flowers will whither, and you will no longer feel a need to experience it. My efflorescence will be but a memory, the dim glow of a lighthouse on a foggy night. You won’t crave the scent of carnations and roses anymore, because based on my experience, these cravings fade like the love of a new song until you have played it so many times that it begins to grow old. Just like you grow tired of the song, you will grow tired of me. And my garden will become just another piece of wasted space in your yard, like the though of me will become a wasted memory in the back of your brain.