A pebble of gold plucked from my chest, or more like amber, or a raindrop, unspun and wound around your hands until they are nothing but shining metal, or more like a mirror, or an ocean. A fool wants something they canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hold or taste or fold or press into an envelope. A fool wants these things: a river mouth, its blood in the water sigh of desire. Happiness is the coin, not the money. Happiness is the blanket wrapped around your waist, not the warmth. Happiness is leaving your feet and knowing the rest. The feel of solid ground the whole way down.