Our souls are like treasures, ensconced in the deepest vault, and owned by some vile caliph or evil magnate. And, like children held in cages, we await a master thief; one who knows every fastidious detail of the cage and the guardians. One whose wild improvisations taunt the very idea of ownership. A Robin Hood of souls, a thief to end all thieves. The servant who is master, whose play spells bright disaster. At night we sing the praises of the thief, dreaming deep, and in the morning, we look for signs. We wait, and watch for signs.