I recognize your mournful tones. They return me to a voice, uncluttered, a memory of childhood, without end. I can be a father, not a teacher. A purveyor of quiet, and intermittent silliness, followed by the stillness of dark, my lucid companion. I am wary of loud sounds, and I care less if I am not perceived, if I am not to lead. Thank you, my lady, for your humble entreaty, your awareness of our situation, the glow of your gratitude, the splendor of your dignity. Thank you, my friend, the spiritual runner, for your earnest greetings. And thank you, young and wrangled brother, for your acceptance. I cannot know how I arrived at this enviable position. But I trust my presence is because my purposes remain unfulfilled. So amidst this stream, these flakes of debris, this awkwardness of adolescence, this perishable identity, this ethical underpinning, I still await a feeling - a clearing.