I was always hoping I could come back here one day, look upon the green Chewer pastures. I was hoping I could smile, run my fingers through the plants, the enchanted shrubbery, maybe tousle a child's hair, and somehow be remembered as someone more vital, someone more delicate than what I've become, which is a crude caricature. I had hoped that redemption was only a few steps away from forgiveness, the type that emerges through time and separation. I wanted to play in the fields, reminisce, discuss Edgar Wright, Takeshi Kitano, Alejandro Jodorowsky and Ron Howard, mock television stars, and trade references from "Yor" and maybe, just maybe, somehow crawl into a world of green from a hell of crimson. Threads like this make me realize that dream has died.