DON'T CRY, DITA. PLEASE DON'T CRY. There was no need for backwards glances. I'm walking backwards, tripping over my own feet in the vain hope that I'll catch a glimpse of your silhouette. In my fantasies you are undressing, but I'M A DESPERATE MAN, DITA. To be blessed with the sight of your shadow brushing its teeth would fulfill me; to spot you making toast would prompt a mental orgasm of unparalleled magnitude.