Swamps Without Answers: how keys are lost.

A handwritten letter is the most personal,
impersonalized form of communication.
Yet, meeting face-to-face bears no benefits, it seems.

Coffee is not enough, nor are comfortable chairs.
Greetings and conversation as warm as the beverage in your hands cannot fulfil the criteria.
Hours of conversation do not lead down the desired path,
though the path on which it leads is profoundly pleasant; simply ungratifying.

It takes a swamp, of all things.
It takes a highway, deserted by the inactivity of night; the crickets missing the memo.
A field is involved, studded with the dead and shortened stalks of the previous harvest.
There must be stars, and there must be wind, apparently.
All of these things lie upon the path that leads through the warm smiles,
and indeed there is no warmth there.

But let me tell you, one who reads, that there are not answers when the end is reached.
There are only memories, and lost keys.
And it is up to the traveller to cherish or despise;
to leave lost, or to go and find.