Flat in the mud of last years garden. Pumpkins and squash I neglected are rotting. Broken faces, split through, collapsed, snowed on and frozen.

A restaurant, a lumber yard, perpetually empty. Nothing works there. An entrepreneur can study it, and even with an unlimited checkbook, can't think of what to do with it.

Are you the one who beat me, then mocked me for crying? Are you the one who told me I was too slow and dumb?

The space you make is soon reclaimed. In the New Hampshire forest there are trees from roots and trees from seeds, stone walls and chimneys of men here before.

Having wandered through Fantasyland, Adventureland, and Tomorrowland, it appears I'm now safely on the locomotive that endlessly circles the park. No one tells me to get off.

This was the last decade I expected to have suck so hard. It sucked at a truckstop.