Can the beginning tell the story of the end without knowing what's on each page hence; that's the attempt that was made at the gate of the cemetery overlooking the city. The street names were well represented among the sleeping many, obelisks and pyramids said "I wasn't ready to leave yet, and please do not forget that I was alive". You won't wake up at the top of the hill where on clear days, your progeny see mountains over the sound into which you dipped your hopes and economy. Generations are threads in clothing that you may have never worn, depending on how you told the story of who are we and what does it mean to be whatever I am. Looking back, ahead, below, there is an evaluation the lonely mailman is tempted to: what was your address, did you reply to all of your letters promptly, politely.