They’ll buy weed but not my words, cocaine but not thoughts and musings or a memento of an existential inquiry fashioned from the sapience of a riverside sunrise. All this work, the unencumbering of my mind, and the step into grace, cannot be imparted because seemingly there is no room in the lexes for my legacy. Some of my best work is just as ephemeral as the scent of coastal forest rain. Rain captures the attention of the senses. What are words though? They can be seen and heard, felt but not touched. Their effect is fleeting. Is it fanciful for me to assume that they will one day reach your hands and your heart? When you touch my words, when you feel me, you will know you are not alone.