There is something lying between the last sentence and the next. Something that will linger for days and perfume the empty space. And what would have happened had the words escaped through the gate? Would the next day have begun any differently? If we were in possession of the ability to rewind to the moments which now fill us with the stench of resentment, would we now posses the courage as well to allow words to become attached to our inner appetites?

I would rather not have the stretched out fields of my days resemble the fenced in dumps we pass by quickly so as not to deal with the guilt of our waste. No, I would rather nourish the soil with the lessons of humility and respect--not to mention restraint. There is something to be said about being disciplined. I'm not quite sure what, but it keeps you in your own bed at night. It keeps you looking towards Heaven asking for what you are not always willing to lend to others. It makes you pause before you utter the next verse.