Tom – Roads here remain unpaved, each spring a little worse. Jane and I still depressed for lack of home and this job’s demand, mingling with the city’s lower dregs. Once you held vision here, stating tourists only stay for the sight. You were wrong. Now they swarm, defile graves, rummage mines for pieces they declare rightfully theirs. We, too, become tourists; grab our wrists, pound out the miles, letting water disrupt our direction. Too soon, I’m afraid, we’ll immerse and find ourselves locked to that same crevice. Fighting upstream, damaging ourselves for birth. Ravaging that last mile.