I will not have you love me because I can write beautiful letters. Nor because I can sing a song about it. I wish you could see beyond the dances I can dance and the work I can competently do. But how can I blame you when I myself fail to see beyond that? Is there anything more to me than a set of talents, pretty plumage to strut about with and signal some kind of genetic advantages? Why must I feel loved because you think I am better than others? 'Better' is so transient, so slippery. Come rain and it is washed down to 'as good', come winter and it acquires layers of snow-white superiority. I guess I am looking for something that transcends all of that. I guess we all are. Ah! The Great Transcending Truth. Humbug!