There is more anger directed towards me than the most logical of persons would understand. Perhaps anger isn't the word, in fact I'm certain it isn't. Frustration. Why I am here, why I am there, why I don't speak for months at a time and when I do, it's nothing of importance to you. My movement is different towards you, and you're upset. Fairness doesn't enter into the equation apparently.

I decided, that night, more than I could fully comprehend at the time. An abuptly closed book, never to be picked up again. The push sent me farther than you would fully comprehend. Sent me to follow the winds, to travel using any means possible -- pages, chutes, cars, songs, hems, balloons, bracelets, marijuana, resumes, spanish moss, campers, jets, photo albums, candles, poker chips, saute pans, lesson plans, puppets, scholars, construction, and constellations.

But there's never an ending, is there?

I asked you not to get personal.