Father, it's been quite a while. I can see the long hand of the clock stroke your face, and although there are no numerals, the monotonous tick of the second hand beats against your brow. Father, you are nothing but an exoskeleton of your former self. The soul trapped between your crisscrossed face lines is not your soul. The hands that wrinkle like underwater mountain ranges are not your hands. I don't believe it's you, father. You were once a great rumbling earthquake with enough force to shake laughter and happiness into the concrete bones of whomever. That was then and here you are now- a quiver, a ripple, nothing but a humming aftershock.