I could write a whirling wide ware and earn wide ware and earn my wages witnessing the film that plays over the TV screen of my mind’s retina. I could contemplate and collaborate speaking the language that all can hear while saying the words only I can create. My symbolic speech would only earn me sympathy. It seems that human empathy is too pure to grow in words and inward passion cannot be sparked by fiction’s flint. The probability to succeed in kindling kindness Igniting ignorance into a fellow’s flame is near naught. What can I do to restore the fabric of polyester hearts? What can the name of Wayne Reverond invoke, what cord of tension can be severed by Lef Avalir? Ultimately, they can’t. But what the hell…