In the file cabinet which is life we organize all pertinent dates, photos and memories. But too often fail to list that which lies in some closet. Too dark and sordid, like some dirty family secret too painful to reveal or admit. Quagmired in a cesspool of transgressions, the closet, warm and dark cushions the fear so great and dire; too overcome by sweat and fatigue his neurons fire at the speed of a butter knife, smoothly but failing to land the final thrust. And in the morning, the closet opens revealing truths too hard to fathom. And as he reaches for the files, tears well in the sockets translucently marring clarity, focus and that new beginning sure to arrive but until then, the closet will do and the file cabinet too.