The king

There once was a king and he ruled over his magical land with distinct fairness and grace. He was a ruler made for the ages - sweet dance moves, white gloves and black curly tresses. His prince was an artists formerly known as something else. His queen (not Liza M.) was a single-name wig-wearing interest piece. Their princess wore pointy cones and did jesus cameo's.

A half-baked thought is worth a whole pastry.

There are those who play a role and sacrifice everything in their life to play the character they've built at every turn. The reason why an icelandic beauty wears a dead swan or 60's character only bears skinny ties. They're true artists. Like the old chinese magician pretending frailty only to fit a fish bowl - complete with fish and water - between his legs under a satin and silk costume.

I know those who are who they are despite their best intents. It seems like a carefully calculated act. Letting on only who they are. Most would choose to wear a different mask at every different encounter in their life.

Kings and Queens do not.

It would almost seem unilateral. Monotone. Routine. It would be - if they tried.

But there's something about having distinct smiles. About being truly amazed and happy about the curious world around them. It's in the way the enjoy the trivial and the pursuit. Perhaps it's in the dainty way they consider the weight of a G or the derived pleasure of a simple night of board games and friends.

They are few and far between - like the red aztec suns signaling the end of a century. The beauty of a personality without act. It provides a calm appreciative of Satie's masterpieces; one that would allow the sinking foot-in-snow feeling to be warm and fuzzy.

Here's to the king. An artist born, not made. Fully committed to the reality of his situational act. The representation of an absolute and relative truth.

_______ Five!