I wrote you a letter, without punc- tuation. yet the words flow freely, like the rivers of imagination, as it depicts; the end of everything. For aren't you already gone? Like the whistle of the steel trains, resonating in the air, hot steam gushing out of cold metal. For isn't that what you do best? You read me a story, of true love in a false land; but aren't we vulnerable when we're on our own? Isn't the impact of fact practical, that we know so little, yet assume so much?