A soft underhand throw to a target, that's fatherhood on a good day. When it's summer and there are a few post holes to dig, before freedom comes responsibility. I quit I learned young, take me back, I can't handle this, this time I've thought about it, and no is the answer, though you didn't ask. To what do I owe these endings or to whom? I could say Thanks Dad but I can't anymore. I have only a body of organs to appreciate for the indelicate sounds I make under conditions of discomfort. Thus, how to proceed, under which auspices will joy's foal be freed? Cannot know is the answer I understand and yet once again I resign the insight that might set me properly adrift.