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Troppo, that last one. Needing to unwind, the lyric self slips into a side-alley stellated with detritus. Childhood's end is more childhood, although not necessarily. Who among us is not some sort of child still dragging along the undismantled trap sprung in the early chapters? So befouled you appear, as you are, downtrodden and hung-up as healing commences with a floral tribute. As if seduction were reversible - as if you could back out the dark wood the way you came, and not be answerable to that dark wood's dark gods - so melodrama, pitching herself at lenient amor.