The little ford boy struggling with purpose and metaphor, playing children’s games in his head, making himself a conductor and empathetic martyr, a dreamscape crafter. The rally point for so many lost boys, clumped together like sodden matchbook heads, each preaching disparate callings. The same boat riding different waves. Subjective voices whitewashed in Times New Roman, reading woe is me, with the italics changed, so woe is me and woe is me, but the principles remain the same ‘Where is all of this going?’ they say, ‘How do you catch your meaning in the midst of all this maize?’