I am. Yet what I am none cares or knows; my friends forsake me like a memory lost: I am the self-consumer of my woes; they rise and vanish in oblivious host, like shadows in love's frenzied stifled throes; and yet I am, and live...

Neko

[TRANSCRIPTION START]
WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU?
Ah. Found it.
But there's something else...

You have to be careful telling things.

Some ears are tunnels.

Your words will go in and get lost in the dark.

Some ears are flat pans like the miners used looking for gold.

What you say will be washed out with the stones.

You look for a long time till you find the right ears.

Till then, there are birds and lamps to be spoken to,

a patient cloth rubbing shine in circles,

and the slow, gradually growing possibility

that when you find such ears

they already know.