Often found on snowy white sheets of bleached parchment are the typed minutes of one’s lifelong meeting with reality; answers to one’s own questions in bold face type garnered from long moments of thought as late night cerebral thunderstorms rein in full glory upon minds full of frightful worry. In our humble searches for justice and understanding there is no rhyme nor reason for what may appear with regards to a satisfying response. All while encroached minds rest and restore their energies in peaceful slumbering. Blessed are the quiet of the night. Lucky in their rest. Un-ticked or tapped or troubled by resonating calls that ring ever so loudly in the heads of the not so tone-deaf tasked with debating questions their soul must ask and continuedly ponder in a joint search with Dante through their own personal hell. Minds for all seasons contemplating; why did this or why did that have to happen to me? Was it a result of choices? Was it a result of fate? Was it in reality just a result? Surely there is some wise sage from centuries ago who has the one right quote we can read and consider now that the end is almost near? Are we non-pulsed mental physical beings akin to kneeling Jesuses spiting into the sand conjuring up answers with dirty paste to heal our wounded souls and eyes from all that life has become around us?  Or are we left to find a mythological tree of knowledge that with just the right faith will yield us all our answers? Whom can we call on to make sense out of this hand we are holding and these eyes that are filling with tears? Are our eyes meant not for whom we see but for ourselves? Scratch not the paper.