Multiply my hours.  Lengthen my days.  But, keep everyone else in the chamber where time stays the same.  With all of the powers vested in you by your name, may you keep the evil at bay from my frame, paying infinite dividends in extraordinary ways.  I sit back in the tiny room that is hidden from view.  A curious mind asked what was behind the panelling to the left of the bookcase.  One may have assumed that it was merely a side panel access the the bathtub in the room next door.  However, the crawlspace opens up once it passes the bathtub into a room large enough for two comfortably in meditative postures.  The room has sage green paint up the walls to the vaulted roof line which, at its apex, is almost tall enough for a six foot tall male to stand up in.  With a humbled head and neck, one such fiend would have a substantial enough standing space to be moderately comfortable.  A candle adorns the corner nearest the hole in the wall that still needs to be covered.  A red bic lighter adorns its side.  My girlfriend’s “Five Good Minutes in Your Body” book helps hold down the hard wood floors who love their fresh dusting and inclusion in nighttime activities.  May the passion continue to flow in your veins.  And, if your community experiences brain drain and it causes multi-generational pain, let me just explain in a plain manner what it is that I am saying.  Everyone needs that comfort room.  That den.  That place where it is safe to be comfortably silent.  That place where you can be content to stare at a Candle’s flickering flame.  Where you feel at home.  Away from the vast nuances and loud noises of the boisterous excited life.  At the center of all that is creative and  contemplative.  At the core of what it is to be human, and to be able to empathize with a whole host of characters.  When the fan circles, and each of the separate bulbs at separate ages, and therefore, different shades of white, approaching mustard yellow, and they hit the bottoms of the wooden blades just right, I feel as if the whole house might lift off of the ground and fly off to Venezuela.  Ah, how my heart flutters when it thinks thoughts like that.  Beneath the venetian blind, but before the glass, there is a microcosm.  A separate climate distinct from the room and the outside.  Up against the outside, separated only by a thin piece of glass.  At the edge of the inside, only able to look out, due to the blinding blind.  One of a kind we each are.  No one will ever quite be us as we were in the here and now.  However, that is not enough to be remembered.  In order to be remembered, one need be great.  One must win.  But who is winning?  What is it to win?  Someone’s idea of winning might sound like losing to someone else.  And children, little though wise, scoff at the idea of one winning forever.  They want to be firefighters, and cowboys, and angels and princesses.  They want to explore, and put on dresses, but not together in the midst of messes.  Not persay strictly from the guest list, or even the best one of your guesses.  Moreso the one invited in because of time spent together in a different life perhaps when they were both cats.  I sit on the edge with waves at my back.  I peer over, careful not to lean too far forward.  I close my eyes, and I can see that candle in my room.  In the corner, fighting back at the dark.