There are bones clamoring. Where mold and mildew rein supreme, where deep accents seep through aging pine and a song plays in lieu of cold rumors. Shadows have no place to hide there and suits fair no better than ragged shawls. The neighbors?...they no longer peak from behind broken blinds. The bills?... they no longer hold sway for you have paid a debtor’s debt. And the kids?...they laugh on as you once did not noticing their fading silhouette, unable to hear that old Thomas A. Dorsey tune that rings out to you in perfect perpetuity... encased so neatly in a sweet scent of pine.