A man’s past is his fate, though he may deny this—and I have heard it shamefully denied: over the well-wishing clink of cocktail glasses, in the stale judgmental air of country clubs, above the hopeful murmur of wedding receptions, and beneath a purple sun that once set on a freshly made grave. Just over one year has passed since I moved few belongings and myself to this would-be coastal paradise. I arrived, almost hopeful, that I may obtain my graduate degree in Human Consciousness. At the completion of my second semester, I was informed that I must have a central thesis when I returned in the fall semester—it is now the beginning of the fall semester. The following pages are the result of a strange summer in Indiana, the summer which most recently passed--please forgive them for their lack of succinctness and brutal honesty, as every word seemed to issue itself as though the lease on silence was long expired.”
