So many written works. So many rejections. Though not mine, pity, sorrow, and all forms of sadness engulf me with kisses too bitter for my skin. This writer, possessor of countless rebuffs, must pen the rights to the word perseverance. For he continues, sporadically picking up a Bic and yellow pad, to write down words that come waltzing into his mind. He continues to drive to town, right up to the worn blue box, to deposit envelopes containing these words, words that define him in mind, heart, and being. He does not desist. Writing, I guess, is as much a component of him as any appendage. I admire his utter peacefulness, zeal, and tenacity for something I can only look at longingly through a frosted window. I am proud of this man, and proud of his work. His persistence in the roaring, screaming face of No, thank you, provides an almost too good backdrop for me to erratically follow. I wish I could say to him what I write, but the complications and intricacies of the human mind allow for me to simply smile appreciatively every time his presence graces my abode. One last time I write admiringly Thank you. Where I see denial he sees opportunity, and I thank him from the bottom of my meek, pitifully human heart for that.