Free the slaves of incubi, of ghosts and anguish. Listen to their crying: I feel soft and iridescent. Isn’t it a weakness to listen to the complaints of the child in us? It will never cease lamenting until it is consoled, answered. The child demands to be understood; then it will lie still in us, like our fears. It will die in peace and leave us what the child leaves to the man who must survive: the sense of wonder.