Build a fence, hang a picture, close a coffin, it’s all the same to the nail but to the hammer? The hammer holds the one with the purpose; the one who wants to build or hang or close. Nails bind, connect and hold, a very simple purpose; they pierce the first then the second and the two become one, almost. The hammer makes way for the purpose and the force behind it, I suppose. The nail takes the beating and bends to the will, even when applied off target, it has no preference but to respond, useless, inadequate without the hammer. The nail may complain mightily within its core, the sixteen-penny box only slightly, but the eight penny ever so much more. A bucket sits in the corner collecting bent nails, each a myriad of regrets, a memory of cursing and time ill mastered. The hammer moves on carrying the one with the purpose accomplishing the task; suffering only, the loss regretted by the bent nail, the toss to the bucket, the curse and the lingering in anger of the bloody thumb. Each moment spent aiming for the bucket represents a loss of time, a memory of uselessness, unrecoverable. The hammer demands the will and the purpose. Tomorrow, I will awake and be the hammer again, as for the bucket of regrets; Oh, it seems as though my Good Lord has removed it. Ain’t it so!