It's a good thing man cannot tell the future with absolute certainty, for he is a creature that leans into slumber when the dots of the dice are known. He looks up at the dots of the heavens and is baffled, and sometimes he curses that he knoweth not paradise; but he should thank his lucky stars; for that is to be grateful for what you own, yet know not. I was home and watching a fly crawl across the glass of a coffee shop window. It could smell the donuts. So could I. I was wondering when I would see Milky Way Joe again, or if I would. He left as a dying man trying to rekindle the fire of his hopefulness, his tarantula faith. Joe handed people riddles and the people put them in their pockets as if they were receipts. It was only later upon rediscovering them, that they realized they were carrying around something unresolved, that they had pocketed mysteries. And by then, Joe was nowhere to be found. From Portland to Boston, to Mr. Tom Gettysburg, the melodies and the love, the end of the world haste. All of it was like pulling napkins out of a dispenser and not knowing what to use them for, and to throw them away would be a waste. I wandered around town. I walked and walked. The humble brick of the building that used to be the library whispered to me as I passed by. The playground I knew was not the one the kids played on anymore. I pitied them though I knew their updated one probably wasn't any less fun to play on. In the stained-glass window of a church I could see the figure of a man bowing his head. As I got closer I could hear music playing. I tried the doors. They were locked. When I peered in through the window I could only see empty seats and some candles. Is that you, Tom Gettysburg? I thought. Is that you praying alone, lighting candles on your own, holding on to the last remaining spoken prayer? In the night I picked up the guitar gifted me and a melody poured through into the room. I entitled it "Since Kansas City". Quitting You say that you're quitting, dear Throwing away all your figurines That look like movie scenes Is it just too much? To be here with you now? And so we've got to be apart I have not been the same Since Kansas City It was not cold It was not warm It was not of this world at all I do not love you any less I just can't get up this wall What did a man pocketing mysteries do with such creations, such melodies, such words? I whistled them over into existence and hoped Tom Gettysburg might hear them. Can you hear me Mr. Gettysburg? Can you hear the frightened child and the roaring lion, the frail old woman with her baguette half way through the crosswalk, the frantic teenage girl all dressed in black, the bold and clever young boy with his fishing rod; can you hear them Mr. Tom Gettysburg?