The haunting rumble of a BNSF diesel resonates through my mind. Its 3 AM scream into the night parallels the corridor of my mind, along the sacrosanct stretches of interstate. My eyes sweep across the horizon to encounter "the moon rose over an open field", but my memory "swears the moon don't hang quite as high as it used to."

I persist in wadding up this site and tossing it into digital oblivion. After a few days, I will dive into the dumpster and root around for all of these old papers. Is there any present value in these things? This collection of hyperlinks and p tags is from a different time, whether the macro, an era of the Internet from decades ago, or the micro, the drive behind my posts—"And I must be what I must be and face tomorrow."

I guess I keep it up because I seek a bridge to how things used to be. I remember those days, the things I did, how the world was. I miss those autumns of yesteryear, but I recognize that it is gone forevermore, replaced by the frogs facing a fateful flood atop fangs of flame. Simply, it blows my mind as to how inauthentic today is—have you forgotten? As it has been said, "People are always telling you that change is a good thing. But all they're really saying is that something you didn't want to happen at all...has happened."