 You do not mean the world to me, my dear. You do not mean the world to me. Try that in other lives. Down to ash. But you might mean the Great Rainforest, the ancient Amazon. It's lush and green potential, growing still, greening still, creating and destroying. Come what will. You don't mean the world to me. Try that in other lives, to my demise. But maybe you mean Montana. It's cloud-free, big, free skies. The peaceful mountains rise. Under dark lit, twice bright stars. Coyote cries. Makes folks fully realize they have the space to be. Breathe, feel, see. The whole world you don't mean to me. Try that to my disadvantage. But maybe you mean New Mexico. I've always found that enchanting. It's got its share of deserts. And then comes Santa Fe. Sacred city, stalwart faith, cool oasis, turquoise and clay, goddess-flavored Santa Fe. I don't declare you mean the world to me, but you might mean the mountains of Montana or the spirit of Santa Fe or the green, gorgeous Earth Mother birthing anew the Amazon in her play. Now, you may, my dear, may call my bluff with nerve to say that's not enough or you may be of just a metal to say for Santa Fe you'll settle. Thank you.