It has been a whiile. There is a house. With a little blue door. And it sits in a wheat field in the early dew of a fall morning. Insects, aglow with the morning light, drift lazily about like motes of dust in an ancient library. This house was built by hands; the kind of hands that belong to a self-made man who dreamt it, built it, lived in it, loved in it, and left it behind. It is a simple, country-style house built in a time gone without machines or shortcuts. Stunningly back-lit by a brilliant dawn, I see the sunlight shoot through smudge windows of the house from back porch to front. The whitewashed clapboard pleasantly peels a bit around the edges, from age or disuse, inviting my hands to come and care for it. To restore it. The empty rooms sweetly ask for purpose and objects and people and feelings to fill up its spaces. I am filled by the bittersweet and melancholic yearning of the house that is not a home and it is me searching for purpose and me needing to be fulfilled and me reaching out and filling the head of a stranger with possibilities and plans. It is me calling out, swathed in glorious morning sunlight, a beaming beacon of hope and promise for the future. Memories of past inhabitants and failed little attempts at home begun within me, in the heart of me, that were abandoned not quickly enough though I yearned for what they represented. For what I could represent. I am saying "please" and laying myself bare. Look to me.