Beacon of Light
To be alive is to revel in wake of destruction. The stuck sentry posted on the expanse of plaster and wall in English 404 like a red-eye Cyclops in repose, wears a name tag, “Hello my name is: FIRE,” and claims to be the distant cousin of a light house stationed in Point Robinson that over-looks the frigid waters of the Puget Sound, scaring ships from shore, but instead of shining welcome to the sea-legged and weary as a beacon of hope, FIRE, waits unenthusiastically to scream like a gander of bludgeoned geese to evacuate and abandon ship at the slightest hint of fog creeping down the decks or halls. This was not the life envisioned when signing the papers. This was not explicitly mentioned in the ink of contract. This does not constitute getting out and seeing the world. This was not how the recruiter said it would be.
