I can’t find a reason to keep going, but I do. The sun beats down on my back and the sand swallows my feet with every step. If I stopped now now would think less of me–most people would stop.

The wind turns silent for a moment and I twist backwards to see how far I’ve come which only causes me to slump further into despair since the car is still visible in the parking log.

As the wind redoubles it’s effort and continues its crusade against me I only wish I had decided to stay home today. It was a good day for reading, not soul searching.

I found my watch while I was looking for my pen. It always happens this way.
I found my blue sweatshirt when I was looking for my black belt and my cellphone charger when I was looking for an extension cord for the Christmas lights.

I’m pretty site this is both normal and completely out of our control. There are very tiny, discrete oranisms with very little to do aside from guide our searches for personal belongings.

It is, of course, this lone of reasoning that has lead to my current predicament whereby I find myself stuck in as airport in Mexico having arrived in full awareness that I had lost my plane ticket and believing so much in my theory and the cosmos that I assumed I would find it while looking for the restroom or, at least, discover the notebook I’d lost last time I was here. That totally would have been worth it.

Drawing, of any kind, had begun to feel pointless which bother him a bit. His rep called diligently every day to check on the Franzen’s piece. “How is it going?” and “When will it be done?” Neither of which he had any idea how to answer.

“Fine.” “Soon.” seemed to placate them so he stuck to that line.

As an artist you learn that these feelings of hopelessness come and go; eventually you make peace with that fact. Yet, this time he knew it was different and as his brushes sat, dry in that old glass vase next to his paint-speckled sink, he began to feel more and more trapped by some that used to set him free.

The pledge drive for Sachet Bay’s public radio station had started as any event like this does. “We’ll wrap this up just as soon as we meet our goal, callers. You know what that means‚Äìthe sooner you call in and make your pledge, the sooner we’ll get you back to regular programming!” Kathy Marklay had said this three-years ago. This was officially the longest pledge driver ever.

They certainly hadn’t intended it to be this way. It was only $15,000 after all. A small amount for such things, and, in reality, they didn’t even need it. The stations benefactor, an independently wealthy liberal from Tennessee who’d done well in the late 90’s - a dot-com that sold doggy diapers and baby-slings for cats - and gotten out before the gettin’ went bad, he had made sure that the station would never need another dime to keep the soothing voices of NPR’s even-keeled, albeit liberal, DJs filling the 6,000 square foot home he had built upon is retirement at the age of 32.

Never-the-less, they feel the need to at least act the part of a desperate public radio station. And, of course, once they’d started it wasn’t as if they could stop. They’d loose face in the view of their listeners who, for the record, knew damn-well they didn’t need the $15,000 and weren’t about to pony-up that $200 pledge, even if it buy them that fancy fleece vest with the station’s logo embroidered on it. So there they were, three years later and only $14,457 short of their goal. Now, only if they could get a corporate match for contributions over $50, then they could wrap it all up. If only…