Sometimes when I contemplate how many people hate me I cry. My tears roll down a bronco sleeve and land upon my writing desk. Often I push my tears around literally, with my finger and trace my heart’s desire. As the tears begin to dwindle I retrace their sorrow to understand the depression of their life. A full circle of life, a half cup of hope. Regardless the amount of tears and the amount of traces I do they never stay. They always die.