That mountain, towering high above the marshes and the valleys. That mountain my father once carried me along, the same one he is buried by. That great cathedral of earth rising above the malls and roadways, eternal to the passerby. It's dark valleys and bright slopes a perfect metaphor for it's true nature. That anchor of my ball and chain, yet also the rock I hold onto as the tide of time pulls me away. It stands on the peninsula, watching sea and bay, intent on their next move. A day without that damnable hill is a day I dream of, but yet a day I fear. I exult in the chance to see for the last time upon the stern of my ship, I have nightmares of not hurtling down it's slopes. In agony I awake each day to gaze upon it as my day passes, with elation I turn towards the sunset and salute it a goodnight. If time is the fire in which we burn then that mountain is boiling water. That infernal mound of earth and rock is my carrot and whip, my sugar and spice. I damn it's shadow but will never fail to smile at it.