Some day, when you return, that which you feared, that which you knew would happen, will occur and you’ll remain stranded on the grimy asphalt of life— stuttering, muttering, grumbling. Your home will be empty, the door battered, windows barred, and chairs untenanted. The house will cry for glowing souls to warm its milieu—to make it sublime… You’ll stand outside the gate, banging on the rusted iron: hoping, waiting for some seraphim to alleviate this incandescent distress. You’ll stand on the lawn, having broken through, the grass will burn your feet, flowers will singe your atrophic core. And you’ll still hope the house isn’t dead. You’ll gaze through the cracked panes, a veneer of false sanguinity shrouding your senses and feel the house wobble on its foundation. Your fingers will be glued to the glass and your hands turn to therapeutic liquid. But you’ll know that you still have the pack of currency to console you, that which you earned in lands afar, that which lends you your men