the buried hatchet

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

please let go of me

/

i’ve faced my fears, /

forgive me; /

you’ve been a helluva host— /

talking about what’s worth /

it amongst this all? /

who stands beside us when the curtains fall?

/

watchin that haze rise, /

kickin on mellow highs, /

gazin at pastel skies, /

happy thoughts

/

you’re in the bedroom section of our hotel room with our toddler son. there’s a newspaper on the kitchen table– you carry on your father’s tradition and help keep these dying printshops in business– that’s titled in Chinese. we’re doing a tour of seven waterfalls [within two weeks] across the vast nation. you guys are reviewing the names of plastic dinosaurs— you’re a world class paleontologist– who I met while traveling in the Czech Republic– and you’re already hoping our two year old will someday follow in your footsteps. our opinions differ on how young we should start this sort of thing, but it’s not an argument that’s been hashed out in its entirety and so I let the tutoring go, for now. you’re brilliant and that makes you strong-natured, which I think is good for me more often than not. there’s a small sandwich ziplock full of fridge magnets with a picture of our little family, our wedding date scribed below it. we’re getting married at the Hukou Waterfall in the Shaanxi Province, and you wanted to bring along the remainder of our magnets in case you made some friends along the way.