On a clear night, the full moon spreads its light over all. The dark secrets of the cold night finally unfold in front of young eyes; these past images restored for the old. The moonlight sheds a tear, then two, as stars fall down from the heavens above. Their sparkling starlight twinkles down, collecting as one in the reflection of a small pond. The lights dance along the surface of the water, rolling in the gentle ripples of movement.

If you look close enough, small bodies frolic over the calm waters; all bodies but one. One bird, a swan, floats along the rest in a disheveled heap of feathers. One bird fights an unwinnable battle for breath, as its life gently trickles out to stain the waters wine red. This once proud bird is now grotesque; it is twisted and mutilated from its own vanity. No one feels sympathy for the dying bird.

The cool water becomes chilling as the bird sinks to its end in a crumpled heap. Its legs intertwine with underwater grasses; its head rests against the water letting go of a final breath. The bird knew that this was coming, but it regrets nothing.

There is such a thing as too much freedom.