I am laughing. Letting the wind take my laughter. Magnify it if the wind must, make use of it in whatever way, for my laughter is a scarce commodity. It is scarce when I am at ease. Easy to grasp when I am at a loss of anything logical to hold onto. My laughter abounds. It overflows out of my lips, out of my eyes, out of my nose. It is like a waterfall flowing out into a river, out into nothingness. But why is the laughter outpouring when the nothingness is inside? The laughter flirts with the founts of weariness and boredom that my laughter masks sobs every now and then. My laughter is not a pure laughter that emanates from a joyous soul. My laughter is raw and tear stained, from the core of my wounded soul. Call me lalaith. For in elven it means laughter.