Picture a man if you will, sitting at high noon on the porch of a ramshackle house, a structure in such advanced decay it seems poised to implode A faint smile creases his unshaved face; otherwise he is motionless and silent, his gaze distant and without focus, evincing no sign he is aware of his scolding wife, or the gaggle of children who boil about his weed chocked yard. Tell me, has he found nirvana, or simply fallen prey to the sin of sloth? Published In Vol. 4 of 7 Dead