Somewhere in the back of my mind, comes the honey-bled answer of yes, but not no. Waiting by the black forest gate, without song or the speech of my elders long gone buried in the depth of wintry mud and clandestine of stars; paused with a chalk-mark I drew of the sun, still there on the red brick of my life-long house. Before we left and the curtains of memory were drawn. After the doctor's appraisal that mind was enough that, just as you are, I am no different. A sunk arm in a bedroom of boredom, and here I still sit with the query of health. Be it after a life long-lived in worry, or found beauty in the love of trees, the calmest of sights, wherein you know that the sun will still rise in the morrow, and money matters less than a pen to paper, a phone-call, a stinging tinnitus of the ear when all in knowledge is known may I finally rest.