Imbued by the scant reminders of the last day's light, I pushed past the iron gate. Its resistant screeches broke the emptiness of the cold air. Those worn hinges spoke to an earlier time of life and vigor, of newness and discovery. Crossing its threshold, I saw the broken archway, the dilapidated vestibule and a desiccated fountain in the foyer. From its perch high above peering far below, a raven crowed for my unanticipated arrival.

I was on Facebook.

I thought, "Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I just ate a bad batch of bacon on that day. Maybe..."

What I saw was...nothing. Oh, what I saw was something. It's just the sort of something that's nothing—just a computer-generated commentary on my Internet, a mired mirror of my malaise, albeit one that lacked my geek endeavors.

What of my friends? I was wholly convinced there would be something replete with vitality—look at all the content I've put to paper since my departure in these past few days. I was sure they would have something.

They were entombed on Facebook. My steps stuttered a path past tomb effigies—one after another. They were...not there. Perhaps Facebook analytics hid them away from me as I approached. As I came upon each frozen-in-time, concrete cast, there was nothing new. It was a forceful reminder of a friend forever at 15.

I hurried on through "the graveyard on a wicked winter's eve and (I was) wonderin' why a man of faith (was) whistlin' nervously. And (I held my) heart 'cause I finally realized, hell, the devil ain't in the darkness, he's a'rattlin' 'round inside."

Casting The Chase aside, I exited that iron gate I travailed so many times before so many years ago. A hollow clang echoed into the night as a ringing reminder of everything that once was.

Rumbling for more in its idleness, an old '79 Ford truck was parked on a forgotten stretch of gravel as its cassette deck played on: "Let's live like we're alive"..."live like you were dying."