He is agitating for release from the hospital.
"I'm well!" he argues bitterly. His mood is as dark as it gets. "There is nothing wrong with me."
Such difficulty seeing, he has.
I need help, and so I am turning to Oscar Wilde. Not the ironic, snarky Oscar. Not the too-clever-by-half chap, although I love him too (favorite line: "I hear her hair has turned quite gold from grief!" -- from The Importance of Being Earnest).
No. I am turning to the Oscar Wilde who makes me cry over the potential for sheer goodness in people -- or in giants, at any rate.
I am about to read this.
(It's a good allegory for Christmas, by the way.)
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