Three young punks throw open the front door after spending the last nine hours in the same room smoking meth and playing video games. Redolent of suburban decay, they walk to the edge of the street and around the corner, just out of view of their nosey neighbours, to await their ride. It’s their dealer; he seems louder and touchier than normal. The three punx glance anxiously at each other-- undoubtedly with similar thoughts on their mind. The dealer knows that the tall one, with the long, dirty, purple hair, is hosting the other quiet ones in the hot topic hoodies while his oblivious parents are vacationing in Lake Tahoe. The 4 of them perambulate Concord in the dealer’s torn and faded yellow wagon smoking more cranial candy. As the four of them wind, without orientation, about the large grey suburban hopscotch, two of the dealer’s friends steal valuables from the house. However, the nosey neighbors notice everything through their tacky lace curtains, and they phone the police. Sirens are off, so the pock-faced robbers don’t notice anything, and are arrested quickly, (totally dumbstruck) without resistance. High and doe-like, the three punks arrive back home, by way of the corner, to a band of cops questioning the elderly neighbors. The boys are seized with anxiety, and their shoulders tense as two female officers with notepads approach them. Their six obsidian eyeballs shimmer when they squint at the monstrous maternal peacekeepers in the mid-afternoon sun. They seem interrogative, abrasive, and distrustful to the three demure teenagers’ addled minds. Their parents are spoken to, and the quiet boys in hot topic hoodies are sent home. After all is settled with the police, Purple spends a nervous night smoking the remaining meth and watching cooking shows in Spanish. His parents return home from their vacation 3 days later to find him thoroughly dead. The parents spend the ensuing month struggling against a relentless deluge of grief, despair, regrets, lamentations and a miscellany of other unfiltered emotions that come pouring from deep within their own hearts. Trembling with sadness, at the suggestion of their therapist, they clear his room. Among the pile destined for the dump sits a number of inconspicuous school notebooks filled with drawings, poems and short stories of an unknown genius—one pilloried by drugs and the absurd. And so he passed silently through time, his written whispers too quiet for it's din.