turn towards the guiding light

Sunflowers, you say.

You'll be born again as sunflowers. And me, I am already a cow (a baby cow, a big brown-eyed thing; I make lovely sounds, don't I, if you're in the mood for a particular plaintive-pathetic swangsong of lowing).

A cow, which eats the grass in the fields, and as I have said, indeed, I eat anything. I prefer to be multicultural, and a cow is not very.

(This is only true if you're looking at the cartoon cow decorating a carton of lactose-free milk. Hence, the woolly mammoth emoji.)

Now sunflowers, however...

Well, just like cows, they're found all across the Americas. And Ukraine, did you know? Cows are even found all around the world.

Cows are funny, sometimes. Comical, more usually.

Go on, google "funny sunflower" - you see sunglasses, don't you? Or perhaps even a helianthus smoking an eponymous strain of blunt. I suppose it might also be profitable to name your weed something fancy like "terminal capitula" but, well, I wouldn't know; I've never smoked.

(I doubt you have. But, you know, mellow.)

The moving hand writes. The moving body plays.

Always, I attribute the sound produced from a violin to the quality of its player. That is to say, "quality" in an unqualified sense. Simply the characteristic. And I suppose I should know which instrument it is you would play, but I'm more focused on my responsibility to chafe when any implication comes about that you're wonderful for any other reason than that simply you're you.

(I won't decide. Quite simply, I won't.)

All nonsense. You say you'll be born again as sunflowers, and I realize that if I've even an ounce of semantic sense, I'll adjust the planning of my future house with the swimming pool and half a dozen cats so that there's a field (and maybe even a barn) in which to tend some sunflowers.

Sunflowers turn back toward the light. And so, in this way, you'd never leave me.