When the lassitude of the road is over me, and the aridity of the sweltry day; when the eidolic hours of nightfall casts its gloom over my life, then I sigh not for your voice only, my friend, but for your touch.
There is a distress in my soul for the burden of  its wealth not given to you.
Put out your hand through the darkness, let me grasp it and fill it and keep it; let me sense its fold along the increasing expanse of my lonesomeness.