No one ever leaves, and returns, to find the places you had left. It has disappeared. The people all around won’t even look at you. Because they remember. What they knew even as the past took you to the cancer in your eyes, and sometimes you wished you could be blind again. You. Sitting at the Pentwater bar. Not unlike all the people in pain again. I will buy them all tickets to Paris. No one ever leaves, and returns, to find the places you had left. If war was about anything, it was about We Will Find Them. Roll your window down. I want to smell the sage.