The words on the crumbled piece of paper found in his jacket were faded but still eligible it read they write on me and accentuate what is but it doesn't mean it's any more or less then what it is coin ps writers change no matter what is written over me or under me if they throw me away or save me for a rainy day I remain a round coin those sentences did not need an external canvas to explain it's content only it's meaning the meaning however zig zagged like patterns across my landscape when I read them were I was the eye of my needle pulling myself through the center of it with the thread of my own choosing and tying it in one shot that would seal it's explanation forever