All a wounded girl can do is shed tears. And, melting into the flows of tears, disappear. Once a girl has matured, she is a mere "woman". Tears shed by a woman are too real. They lack the dreamy value of an angel's teardrops. So, the girls keep their eyes closed and doze. Closed eyes need never to see reality. They are all Sleeping Beauties, floating gently along in their sweet dreams. All who drift have an affinity for water. Sweet water, passive water. Water is a melancholy substance. It carries drifters along the current into the world of dreams. Dreams for which one does not awaken. Dreams that flow on. The floating, drifting world of dreams. They must not mature, or they shall be burned by the fire of reality. They must not wake up, or they will see reality. They must not leave the green house, or they will feel the winds of reality. Not wanting to awaken, the girls remain asleep. It is a sweet sleep. A passive sleep. How comfortable to doze, to play among dreams. To sleep in sweetened waters. Softly swaying, softly swaying, an eternal sleep of dreamy play, the sleep of sweetened waters. For how long? Forever.