I question myself, as much as I would like toAs much as a tumultuous wave whose reason is still dueMy backpack is full, but is it an illusion?I think it probably is, but it sometimes really is fullI go to a nature park, and why are there loops in the road everywhere?A day that appears to be monotonous is not the realityA day that truly is monotonous is definitely rareI’m a multi-musician, but am I proficient in one way or another?An answer pans across the dewdrops of the pondThe acoustics around me, the chirps wrapping around my eardrumThe table is not turning, but it’s tiltingI know that I am excellent in certain thingsHence, I make a tributeAnd there’s no specific reasonIt’s just another idea of questionable originality