Black Umbrella Alert. I sit now in my perfect little theater sitting in the depths of my newly built home. You know how you go down the stairs and there are two pathways? One leads to the switchboard, the other to this theatre. Hmm of course you wouldn't know, I just redecorated. Anyway I would like to present to you the prologue to the story currently entitled The Simulacra Concept. Its a design of mine that I think should bud from a novella before reaching its full potential. Please leave questions and comments till the end of the show. Popcorn is optional, although tea is recommended!

Oh I almost forgot the most important part. Music. Please turn on your olfactory and eardrum instruments, this is the full experience after all!

All my life I've spent with empty arms. When I was young I had many teddy bears, but I quickly grew out of that phase. It wasn't important, I didn't need to cling onto something to sleep well at night. Of course there were other things, but that's besides the point I'm trying to make.

I awoke this morning in my big feather bed from a nightmare. I'd like the spare details because I hardly remember it, and usually I don't mind nightmares. They're good for conversations and realizing just how damaged you are. This one was just prude and I'd rather ignore it, so should you.

In that dream was that same shadow. The shadow I haven't seen in a long time. It used to keep me company, stay in my room at all hours. Not quite there but just enough that I knew I wasn't alone. Without figuring out quite what it is I've grown accustomed to it. I need it.

Two words, maybe more are shared between him and I. Well mostly me. Shadows don't talk, you know that. Still...I couldn't help but feel ecstatic that when I'd walk into my tiny room at the end of the day he would be there.

I awoke this morning in my big feather bed from a nightmare. In that nightmare I wanted nothing more then to return to my room and cry into your transparent silhouette imagining your arms could really hold me.

What if you could? What if I walked in one day and you stood there as real as I was. As warm, as soft, as human as I am. What if for the rest of my life you were the one I returned to, you were the one I told everything to.

I wonder if perhaps in your room I am a shadow that visits you often. That you think of me as your imaginary sanctuary to talk to when you come home. We run on different frequencies, but that doesn't mean one day I can't tune into yours. Wishful thinking.

That explains why you haven't been around lately. I brighten the lights in every room, running back and forth hoping to cast the darkest most prominent vision of you. But you're dim, and fading fast. Even my tears aren't bringing you back. Yesterday I saw you once. Once.

I awoke this morning in my big feather bed from a nightmare. I awoke. And you weren't there.

Your eyes are a beautiful shade of brown. So dark I wonder how far they go. Your lips, so quiet, so pursed. You have something to say but you withold. Your back, so broad, so strong. You carry the weight of your responsibilities as a priviledge, not as a burden. Your arms, so taught, lean, and outstretched. I want to be in them, to trace the contours and file them in my memory for safe keeping. I don't want to forget one thing about you.

Such a beautiful night to be thinking of you, laying somberly-outstretched-on the dock over the water. A boat passes, but I make no movement to look. I stay and listen to the waves as they hit the solid wood of the surface I lay open. Its so calming, like mother nature is singing me to sleep. Yet that is but a distant thought, for my eyes are looking upon the stars tonight. They're so vivid, so bright, so many!

I count the constellations, imagining the world falling apart below me. Once the world is gone I am forever adrift in their unmatched beauty. Not completely unmatched, I must say. Your beauty is one I can not match either. Your intelligence, your charisma, your gentleness. In your eyes I can see how much you care for me, something I have never seen before. You do not doubt me, you believe in ever fiber of me being. As I believe in you. And yet...

I have yet to meet you.

I know you're out there. Among the stars. Possibly counting the constellations as well. Perhaps floating into nothing in the beautiful infinity of the universe, as I am too. Or perhaps you're dreaming of me. For I have always, and will always, keep dreaming of you.

It's red. Big and red. Circular...a spherical shape. However I infer this because only half of it portrudes from the wall. I think its time to push this button. This big, red, ominous, change bringing button.

Click.

The walls drip to the ground around me. The colors seaping into the floor, the colors into grey. All around me is a great white light as I'm suddenly surrounded by nothing. By nothing!

I can't believe it. This beautiful feeling of everything being stripped free. So clean, so pure, so undaunting. I want to touch it, but of course it flows on forever. This space filled with all colors so bright it shines white. The old dripping into an inky nothing. I can tell the button is in fact a sphere now as it hovers at my eye level in this open space. It's still red, I wonder what that could possibly mean.

My fingers dance around it innocently. Thoughts of how much force before the change travel through my mind before I tap it gingerly with my index finger. Suddenly the walls are up around me, new, fresh, white and gleaming. I love it. I love all of it. It's building frist from the room I stand in to another and another, outward to the horizon, to the sky. New furniture, colors, styles, begin to flood into the rooms. Speed picks up and I find it hard to stand still as I'm thrown around by strong currents, my long hair dancing wildly in my eyes.

Click.

It's done. All finished. A new home, a new start. The picture frames all empty waiting to be filled with new memories, new faces. My wall of hearts lined and waiting to be broken for the first time.

There are only 3 things I'm sure of. The suitcase is still under the stairs only quiet now, dormantly waiting for my return-but not yet little case, not yet. The second is the red phone. I can be sure however that the phone is off the hook, I'll put it back when I'm good and ready. And third.

My Black Umbrella.

There it sits in my hand, as if it was always there. I open it to hear the satisfying click of the metal. I reach for the door handle and open it to this new outside world waiting for me.

With a new smile shining just below the brim of its black, my eyes gleaming with fresh new air, I step out with you. My sweet. My Black Umbrella.

The upstairs was still quiet, still motionless. My pack was heavy with canned goods, but not as full as I would like. Too many were dented, I may be hungry but I'm not about to sacrifice my years of survival for botulism. I closed my eyes and allowed my body to move through the halls and around objects. I imagined the lights being on, the family still at home. A wonderful dinner cooking on the stove, the kids giggling softly in the living room. The father shushing them as he watches the game...the mother cursing as she spills the milk...

Snap. I'm back to reality. Standing in the kitchen with nothing more then the light of the moon warming the surfaces. When I reach the patio door I throw my knapsack out into the center of the yard and quickly jump in after it. With a quick roll I tumble to the grass as well. Its rough against my skin but I use my imagination the mask it into beautiful green grass. I roll onto my back and stare up at the stars. The same stars I've always looked at. The same open black sky. Oh to be under this sky when I was 16 again. To look up at it and think my only problems were the quiz in the middle of the week and my best friends finding new friends. Now I'm nameless, now there isn't a person in the world to call a friend. And yet...the stars are the same...

I know I can't drift off by my lids hang heavy over my green eyes. Eyes that have seen to much. Eyes that are now a dull murk without the taste of fresh food and water and the vibrance of life I once had. My hair so long, so dark, so tangled and worn. My nails chipped and dry. My hands cracked and used. My clothes dirtied with years, with sadness, with loss and death. I sigh heavily, another day is done. I slowly rise to my feet, popping my joints quietly. It's time to find a place to sleep tonight. Maybe this house? No, its too open. Too cold looking.

I turn to leave and my breath catches in my throat. I feel a scream bubbling and clutching to my tongue, but I can't let it out.

There he stands.

He's tall, and covered in shadows from the empty clawed branches and the white pierce of the moon. I can't make out his face, I can't see if he's an animal. Who am I kidding? We're all animals now. We all want food, and we'll all do whatever it takes to get it. I begin to pat my sides uselessly as I contemplate where I put my weapon. It's obviously in my bag but my train of thought is lost to the stranger in front of me. His motionless body begins to twitch slightly. Is that movement? It's been too long and I can't understand the basic body language of my species.

He steps forward. I step back.

Another step forward. Another step back.

I clutch my throat in wordless fright, an involuntary action. All of a sudden he's running at me. I get ready to use bare fists, but I get ready for the impact more then anything.

 ...gurgle and grunt of anger cut through the ink black silence and a thick body flew into my gut. I was already crying by that point. I had never been met with anger, with war...

It's the same as last time, isn't it? Only I don't have anything in my surroundings to save me, just grass and a pure black sky.

He hits, but not in the way I had been waiting for. I expected a shoulder to my waist. A force so strong that I would be on my back silently screaming at the lack of air left in my lungs. A ripping fear flowing through his hands as he begins to barrel them across my body. Violently kneading the soul and life right out of me.

It wasn't like that. I wasn't on my back, I wasn't winded, I wasn't in pain. What was this feeling? I felt strange, trapped and confused. My whole body felt a warmth it hadn't in so long...had I really ever felt this now that I think of it? My body was crying, but I was so dehydrated no tears fell from my eyes.

He was holding me. Hugging me. Embracing me with the strength of loss and loneliness not fear and anger.

"W...why?" A new emotion. I had not heard my voice for so long that I thought I didn't have it anymore. It was scratchy, deep, like I had had a terrible cold. He never answered. Fear replaced the confusion as I realized minutes had passed. I began to squirm but it didn't work, his embrace was tight. I amplified my efforts and began fighting against his broad chest letting a swift hook hit his side, right below the ribs.

"Ah!" He coughed in surprised and let go stumbling backwards a bit. Fear held my hands in fists and hope powered my heart. I wished it wouldn't, I wished I wasn't still so naive. He wanted my food, he wanted my body, he was a man.

I spun around and grabbed my back and began letting my feet carry me across the air. I could barely feel the ground below my feet.

"Wait, please! Stop! I'm sorry! I wasn't thinking! Just-please don't go!" His voice carried and I realized he was chasing me. I could only think of going to the caves where I had spent the last few days. However, if he followed me I would lose my one hiding spot in this podunk city.

He was faster then me.

He clutched my hand forcing me into a tumble from speed, but he never let go. His hand was rough and callused like mine, but he did not hurt me. I got to my feet and glanced at him through the locks of my hair.

"I-I haven't met a single person in 2 years.I was afraid I was the only one left. But you...you're alive, breathing, warm...I-I wasn't thinking straight, I shouldn't have scared you like that. I'm sorry." It was too much to handle. It had been a long time since I'd seen anyone, let alone heard someones voice. It was always an angry grunt, almost a bark. We had lost civilization, and I had lost myself as well.

"Why...why aren't you hurting me? Why aren't you fighting me? Why aren't you taking my food, taking advantage, taking...taking..." I wondered if he heard me, my voice so hoarse and small.

"I don't want to. I don't want to destroy something I've spent so long searching for." His eyes, large and blue, were filled with sorrow. He didn't seem much older then mid twenties, but the years in his eyes changed everything.

"No." I coughed, dropped my bag, "Take it."

He stepped into the light, and I made out his features as best as I could. His jaw was strong, scruffy but he had shaved not that long ago. Oddly enough something so simple, meant so much. For him to carry on actual civilized routines was something I hadn't seen. His hair was just past his ears, brushed back and out of his blue eyes. Those eyes! So blue, so full of life and passion, and also fear and pain. Something stirred inside me, something odd and strange.

It began in my stomach, fluttering and flying about-stretching to the walls of my body and pushing to burst free. Then it recoiled and lashed out slowly to my fingers tips and toes, tingling and strange. Slowly it the temperature began to rise and these sensations began to burn with a yearning. So much more forceful then the need to survive, to eat, to live.

It was the need to love.

Slowly this time his hands wandered to my sides, one brushing back the hair I had hid behind when I judged him with my eyes. Every place he touched burned with intensity. So much loneliness and pent up longing were waiting for this moment. A moment stolen by these horrid events, the changing of the world into a society of heathens.

But I wasn't a beggar. I didn't steal, I wasn't desperate, and I had never killed. Not in this moment. In this moment I'm purely living for perhaps the first time in my life. He closed the distance gently, I could tell he hadn't wanted to startle me again. I was far from wanting to run from this man.

Just a man and a woman, locked in an embrace. Creating a spark amongst the dying filament of earth.

 

I'm in the kitchen now. Not only is it completely black but it smells of mold and must. My initial fear upon entering my first mold smelling home was what my hands would lay on in the dark when searching for food. A maggot encrusted fuzzy lump of used-to-be food? There were moments when the counters and fridges would look as though their outer shell was moving in waves rather then a solid object with the amount of insects roaming about. I quickly learned that you would-in some way-hear them feeding on every last morsel of food.

All was silent thankfully so I delved my hand into the nearest cupboard.

Empty.

Next Cupboard. Broken dishes and cups covered in dust at the touch.

Next Cupboard. Empty again.

This house must have been raided a thousand times. The dishes were obviously not rich in quality to be able to trade at any black outpost. The outposts were used for the people who still believed they had status, and for feeders like me to give them that status. You could trade expensive items for food and water. Very few still existed for people that were still using the expensive objects for creating, rebuilding or just plain status. I for one never traded. The black outpost would never get a cent from me.

It was clear to me that the only place left to check was the basement. I hated this. Most people never went further then the kitchen but resources were so few that I had to take drastic measures. It had been a solid 2 days since I last ate. I could still survive without food, but I wouldn't have the energy to defend myself should I have some unruly contact with humanity.

I pulled my bag around to my front. Inside were a series of makeshift weapons. A key ring attached to a small pipe. The keys were splattered and encrusted, I had used them before. A small pocket knife I haven't used in a while. I used to clean the prey I caught, the small stuff, but its been so long since I've seen any in these parts. The arm of a paper cutter taken from the art room of a high school. It had taken me a lot of power to pull it from the base but its come in handy. This would be the weapon I'd use now, it was silent and about the length and width of my forearm. I proceeded down the staircase into the black ink of the basement.

One stair. Silence.
Stair two. Silence.

Stair six. Silence.
Stair seven. Creeek.

I stopped dead in my tracks. I had underestimated the age and use of the home. It seemed newer yet this stair was awfully loud from use. I held my breath...one second...two seconds...three seconds...nothing. If I was an obvious threat to whatever could be down here they would have killed me by now. Theres no use prolonging the inevitable in a hunger crazed world. No hesitations.

My feet reached the bottom and I stepped out letting my feet guide me around objects, not my hands. This fear had reminded me of one of my earlier raids.

The basement was cold, almost too cold. The air was still flowing through the home, giving me a glimmer of hope. My hands were wet from the water from the sink, another glimmer of hope. If the electricity is still running, the water still running, then we can bounce back right? If we just hold on a little longer then we can regain footing and step back from the drop humanity is now hanging over.

Perhaps this feeling of hope is what made me so careless. Or maybe it was just the lack of experience.

I had my hands out feeling around objects, I was hungry and the food in the fridge wasn't enough. Most families kept bulk in the basement. A bar, a freezer, a stock room, etc. I had been so elated to feel the cool air, to feel the water still clinging to my throat and soaking up my skin, that I didn't hear him breathing.Not until my searching hands landed on the top of his head.

I felt hair, body heat, perspiration, everything I wasn't looking for. A gurgle and grunt of anger cut through the ink black silence and a thick body flew into my gut. I was already crying by that point. I had never been met with anger, with war. My mind was still searching though, searching for a weapon. I tossed and turned in his grip as his nails cut through my skin. He was clawing like mad, searching for the food in my pack, ripping it apart. Then my water can, he ripped through it dropping all that was left over my face. I spluttered and choked as it caught in my thin airway. I was only allowed to cough once and then his hands were around my throat.

Why rip my food up if you're just going to kill me? Why poor out the last of my water if you're just going to kill me? Why hurt me and prolong the final effort? While my brain was asking all these silly final questions my hands searched for something hard. I ended up tipping a chair as I writhed in pain and anguish. Something rattled...not far from my reach.... but...its getting so dark...so cold...why...

Suddenly my fingers wrapped around what felt like a pipe and and a slashed up at my attacker. I attempted to pull back and swing again but whatever I was using was stuck. His hands fell slack around my neck and he slumped to the side taking my bludgeon with him. I crawled and cough towards the bar I had felt on my way down. To the sink that was still wet from my thermos. I dipped my head under and allowed the water to heal my enflammed throat. it was so cold, so salty, so tasty.

I crawled back to the body and pulled out the key ring and stuck it in my bag. My food was all wasted but I picked it up anyway, I would salvage what I could and move on. In a matter of seconds I had aged 10 years. In a matter of seconds my hands  that were wet from pure water were now soiled with blood. 

 

The world had depleted. We had done the unthinkable, us, humanity. We allowed our greed to seep into our prosperity. In one sweeping decline we sold our souls over for money and fame. Like scavengers in the lime light we ate up our water, our resources, our land. When we couldn't build out we built up. When we couldn't persuade people we bought them out. When people pointed the finger, politics enslaved the people. Hive mind, and we were dying in the moisture of our own honey.

I was down to my last days, I knew it. My skin was drenched in my own sweat, my hair matted and long. I once used money for $200 hair appointments and $100 outfits for one evening. Now I scraped by with little clothes or hygiene. I used to count the days to salvation. Now I count the days till my own damnation.

I crept up over piles of mud, one of the last ponds had been filled in to "pave" the way for a sport mart. That had been a good 5 years ago though. There is no one left to continue this madness, there is no one left to make it right either. Still I cringe at the sight of it. It was a symbol of our demise. I watched and waited, tonight I would venture into the homes of the rich and famous, what once was anyway. Tonight I would go searching for food that I couldn't live without for another day.

I feel as though this story should have a different ending. I want to look out over this pile of rubble and imagine that my country is at war with another and we're fighting the good fight. I want to imagine that aliens have come down and began destroying the planet. I want to imagine that a horrible disease has swept the world that we didn't have the time to control. Knowing fully well we had the time and the knowledge and the resources to stop what we have done was utterly depressing. Knowing that we as an entire world fucked up tore my heart to pieces. I for one knew this would happen, but yet I still sat around in my beautiful home and switched the channel when green peace, world poverty, war updates, and pollution hit the screen. I believed I couldn't do nothing. Hive mind, wait for someone to stand and that someone is waiting for you.

Now I feared for the other humans that were inhabiting and scavenging in those homes. The weapons they would carry, the vile torturous things they would do if I attempt to take what they want. We're all fighting for the same thing now and yet we fight against each other.

I'm hiding behind a shed now, it's gotten dark. Dark is good. Dark means no one can see me. It also means I can't see them. I hunch over and crawl across the grass keeping my body as close to the ground as possible. The blades begin to pull my shirt up, scratching my bare skin. It's starts to itch and hurt as I feel it across my stomach, my legs, my arms. I want to stop, I want to scratch, but I can't I must keep moving.

I'm by the deck now, hiding off to the side. The curtains have fallen off the rod on the patio door and I strain my neck to see inside. Shadows, lots of shadows, but none of them move. None of them look human. My heart becomes heavy. I'm afraid to see someone and yet its been months since I have. What I wouldn't give for a shadow to at least move. To know I'm not alone.

My skin is cold and clamy. A porcelain finish to this sad little doll. I sneak inside, taking the entire frame whole. The limbs bend perfectly to my will, you can't tell the difference between myself and my new outer shell. Every strand is perfectly placed, tight ribbons pulling the hair out of my eyes, but not completely out of my face. My fingers are now cold to the touch, solid and lifeless. No one will notice. No one at all.

I put on my clothes, much like any other day. I check my e-mail. I check my mail. My phone. My journal. My Telescope.


.
.
.

Silence.


The world has gone quiet suddenly, the suit I'm wearing becomes heavier and heavier but I don't connect the two. "Everyone is busy. Everyone has a life. Everyone is moving." Cold short whispers bounce of the porcelain walls of my armour forever flying back to me. It's all probably, is it not?


The curtains are heavy and thick with dust though I had never truly realized it until now. Slowly, creaking like death, I pull them back to let the beaming rays shine in. They touch the floor, the furniture, the walls, the pictures, the ceiling, and finally my face. For one short, quick, intake of breath I feel relieved. Then the light fades and I am finally baring witness to the outside.

People are busy. People do have lives. People are moving. Without me.

My tongue swells and sweat beads on my brow. My knees buckle and I hear a blinding crack as a piece of porcelain falls from my outer core. Quickly now, one foot after the other, clutching to the pieces I have left, I barrel down the stairs to my cave. My switchboard.

All systems are off.


The floor is so inviting. Its cold and rough to the touch, but it still has a touch. Slowly I slip to my knees then onto my side, drifting out of my doll as the pieces shatter to the floor. I can feel my make-up creating lines of black down my cheeks but I give no effort to erase them. In front of my gaze...sits the red phone. One last chance. Someone will answer. I'm not alone. I will pick it up and say, "Hello?"  and a comforting voice will reply. I will smile an actual smile because someone has answered. They will ask me how my day was, a tricky question as I could answer honestly or pretend everything is alright. No one likes to hear the bad news as I have learnt. We will talk for hours!

Then suddenly the phone rang.

They're calling me? No one ever calls the red phone. I'm shocked, mortified even but not ungrateful in the least. Hurry I scramble up to sit in front of the phone, hesitating only for a moment before I grab the reciever like its as hot as its color.

"H-hello?"





Only dead air...nothing like false hope to sweep you off your feet.

Colors are dull, cheap hues fabricating an authentic look. Everytime I look out my window all I see are these dull colors. Walking, strapped to human bodies to exude a style. If you look hard enough you can see the manufactured seam lines in their skin, like a plastic doll-if you're looking for it, of course. Most don't. Most can't.

I can.

Expensive homes. Expensive toys. We go to school to gain money, not knowledge. We dress to empress not to survive. Having a roof over our heads doesn't matter. Its the type of roof. Society is hungry for more disembodied canvas to paint lies on.

An answer is impossible to find. Politics are lies, society lies, we lie. I planned to join the army but I feel as though its not my battle to fight. I feel as though it is just another conformists group. I'm fighting for what? For who?

Out on that field there are few colors. Passion, life, death, the animal inside. They're all alive and thriving out on that battle field, and yet...how do I know what side I am on?

I could paint my hair dark, rip my clothes to appear anarchastic. And be...goth? Punk? Rock? Label after label after label?

Today I keep inside my home. I lock the doors, and hang up my mask. Today I am me. I fight for my beliefs, and I fight for those who will join me. I keep the pretty out. I keep the fake and narcissitic out. I treat it like bad weather, if I stay in doors maybe it'll be gone by tomorrow.

Or perhaps tomorrow I open my door. Not to let it in, but to let myself out.

Change one at a time.

It's all I ask.

}][{ ::: 12


You carry a stone in your hand. One in your pocket, one up your sleeve. You know you have them, they're a defense against an imaginary force. You have no enemies, yet you demand to make some.

My stones are in my mouth. I don't feel them. I don't even notice them spilling out as I try and talk to you, but there they are lying on the floor at my feet. I can't hold them back when I can't see them coming, but its no excuse. While I apologize you're at my feet like a scavenger. Scratching, scrounging, sliding every stone that fell from my lips into your pockets, clothing, bag, any space you can find. I want to close my eyes but I can't, even though I know you're about to use them against me.

Usually you start with the small ones, so tiny I ignore them. Then you upgrade a size, larger and larger and larger. When they start to bruise I open my mouth to tell you stop, but more stones spill out. I can feel them now though, like my stomach is one large poisonous gum ball machine begging for change. Like a never ending cycle you pick up my fallen words and throw them at me. But I never threw one at you, have I?

This time its different. No stones in my stomach, no stones in my mouth, I come to you. I open my arms, defenseless and asking for forgiveness. I wait for the small stones, my eyes closed.

Then it hit me.

A big stone.

It hurt, it really hurt. I feel bruised and beaten but I never move. I stand firm with my arms outstretched as you start to pelt me with small ones, yet I leave no weapons at my feet.

Another one hits.

A big one.

I choke on the stones now. I tried. I really tried. But they're coming. So fast. They won't stop. I can't even breath. Yet I understand these stones are harmless still.

The last one.

The biggest of them all.

I didn't know I had it in me. It wasn't until it hit that I felt it rumble in my stomach, burn up my throat and clatter to the ground. You can pick up your meaningless-harmless even-pebbles of stone. You can throw them, chuck them at me. I don't move from them, not even a flinch.

I'm at my knees now, such a slow movement from standing to crouching. I pull further down and pick up the big stone that I had found inside me. With one quick move I was standing again, the stone had left my hand.

I don't want to see your reaction, I don't want to see your face. You can keep the stone I threw. A souvenir. You have the biggest weapon of all now.



And no target.

}][{ ::: 11
-------------------------------------

Today I ask for hope. I raise my eyes to the sky, lower my shield, my beautiful companion, my black umbrella. I pray that our lives are much like the sky. Cloudy and dark one day, blue and open the next.

The sky is blue today, fresh and wide. I extend my hands to heaven and if I squint long enough, the rest of the world washes away. Yet today I play no games. Today the sky holds a dark cloud among all the other pretty white ones. Was I under my umbrella when it reached my eyes? Was that why I didn't see it coming?

Clasping my hands together tightly I shouted up at the cloud as politely as I could at such a volume. I asked to play a game with it, I game on my terms. This game would be hard, it would be gruelling, but it isn't one I haven't played before either. I call it a staring contest. If I can keep my eyes on the cloud long enough then it will change into something beautiful.

Hands clasped, wind ruffling my hair, the smell of earth in the air, I sat staring, waiting, and praying.

Today I pray for a miracle.

-------------------------------------

This 11th post is dedicated to my grandfather.