Where is the ode's cry, or the eagle's stare of wonder? The world of things has caught me up on a river running rapidly, making everything around me a blur, and myself anxious of what's coming next. Years ago I made friends with the shadows on my wall, heard dreams in the rustling of the wind, and remembered everything with a sharpness that made my eyes water. And now, friends are hard to come by, dreams are forgotten, and memories -- are only a memory. Perhaps "benefit" is a word whose meaning we've considered poorly.