I took the only seat in the house to hammer away on these keys in the hopes that I would string together some strain of sentences that resemble some forgotten sentiment, some pathway to the long compacted sediment under which my heart is buried. The poets and the songwriters seem to sum things up so well that my vain attempts at compiling letters into words and sentences and paragraphs seems like a road to nowhere littered with boarded up convenience stores. No fuel for the drive. No snacks for the car. Just an empty road that leads to nowhere. And don’t bother punching the clock because this work trip to the woods is on your honor and it won’t matter anyway because they’ll deliver the remainder of your meager earnings to the funeral home to help pay for your service. Just like they’ll do for all the poor souls that sold themselves to the company store. The work. The toil. The unending hours in the cave with the tiny yellow canary in the cage that just won’t stop singing that song about how you should have left years ago. Remember that? Remember the song? In the cave? In that dark, dark space where there was dancing and laughter and so much enjoyment that two people should have had to pay admission to see the seven shows? Drive. Get in the car and drive. Write the letter and mail it. Write the letter and burn it. Write the letters into words and send them all the way to space and back. It’ll change your life. It will. It will change it because you’re a good egg and you’ll end up right where your supposed to be and there isn’t anything that’s going to stand in the way of that because that’s how the universe works. It works out for everyone and nobody leaves before they're supposed to because if they did everything would be disrupted and nobody would have to go to work anymore because there wouldn’t be jobs and there wouldn’t be money and everything we know would be gone because somebody left before they were supposed to. It’s a chain of events. It’s dominos. It’s one foot over the other until it isn’t. Sentences. Paragraphs. Run-ons.