8 am Sunday, November 1st, 2015 in some small town in rural Michigan:

A detective and a police chief stand beside you staring at the empty pedestal where the largest, most precious diamond in the Midtown Museum once stood.

“I don’t get it,” the detective says. “We know this has to be the work of Ima Crimino. Why can’t you guys just arrest her?"

“This seems like a cookie-cutter case for her but Crimino’s alibis are just too tight,” the police chief says.

“She’d have to be a time traveler to have done all that stuff so quickly, though,” you say. “Or have teleportation powers or something.”

“I know,” the detective sighs. “She went from the North Quarter to Southside, the Eastern District, and Westland, then somehow back here in Midtown at this very museum, though each section of town has at least thirty minutes of travel time between them.”

“Fifteen in no traffic, but still,” the police chief interjects.

“These receipts. They’re proof, though. I guess we can’t question it,” the detective says, looking down.

“Are you sure it wasn’t another person using her name and credit card?” you ask.

“Nope,” the police chief assures you, “Her face was caught on camera at all the self-checkouts, and we tested each machine for her fingerprints. These receipts were found in the glovebox of her vehicle which was left in the museum parking lot, yet she and the diamond are nowhere to be seen.”

“I have to wonder, why are all these stores open past midnight?” you ask.

“Around the holiday season, they want to make sure everyone can buy gifts at any time of day,” the police chief chuckles. “A few people like to shop at night when there’s hardly anyone else out on the road.”

“Our town is weird, okay? Don’t judge us,” the detective says, a bit offended. “It’s all self-checkout machines at this time anyways, so there are no employees complaining about working late. They can spend time with their families.”

“Really?” you scrunch your nose. “Doesn’t that mean you see a lot of thefts?”

“Sometimes, but most people around here are honest,” the police chief says.

“Apparently Crimino’s not honest, so why wouldn’t a thief like that just steal the stuff? Why did she go through the process of actually purchasing the items?” you can’t help but wonder aloud. "And why did she skip back and forth like that? Is she usually this forgetful? And she's surely wasting a lot of gas--"

“We’re getting beside the point," the detective impatiently interrupts you. "Let’s check over the evidence again,”

Laying out the receipts in chronological order, they try to piece together the timeline in their heads:

North Quarter Sporting Goods

12:59 am Heavy-Duty Backpack

Eastern District Hardware

1:11 am Glass Cutter

North Quarter Sporting Goods

1:13 am Climbing Rope and Harness

Eastern District Hardware

1:14 am Double-Ended Pick Set

North Quarter Sporting Goods

1:15 am Black Hiking Boots

Eastern District Hardware

1:16 am Bright Flashlight

Westland Clothing

1:31 am Black Jumpsuit

Southside Gas Station

1:32 am Strawberry Snack Cake

Westland Clothing

1:35 am Black Gloves

Southside Gas Station

1:39 am 10 Gallons of Gas

Westland Clothing

1:44 am Black Balaclava

Southside Gas Station

1:55 am Root Beer Soda Pop

Then, you take a look at the Midtown Museum's security footage:

2:00 am A figure arrives, wearing a black jumpsuit, gloves, hiking boots, and balaclava. They use a climbing rope and harness to scale the building, a glass cutter to get into the window, a bright flashlight to see in the dark, a double-ended pick set to pick the lock on the diamond case, and a backpack to carry it away. No fingerprints were found, but traces of Strawberry Snack Cake were found on the window and sticky Root Beer was found on the pedestal.

“Our perp was wearing the stuff on the receipts. Isn’t that proof enough that it was Crimino?” you ask.

“Unfortunately not,” the police chief breathes. “It could be a coincidence, or another person might be trying to set her up. Either way, we need solid evidence to prove that it is possible for her to have gotten to the museum so quickly after leaving the last store. It would have taken her at least fifteen minutes, so that last receipt makes her innocent.”

You frown at these bumbling fools and shake your head. Their logic is so flawed, and they aren’t paying any attention to the details that actually matter. What really happened here?

Spoilers below...

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If it was really so impossible to jump all over town so fast, why was it hard for the police and detective to reason that something had to be amiss? If Crimino somehow leapt from the North Quarter to the Eastern District in mere minutes, what was to say she could not have simply appeared at the museum? Shouldn’t they be trying to figure out the HOW instead of the IF?

Refraining to bring up these facts, you calm your temper and clear your throat, reminding the pair that Daylight Savings Time just ended this morning. Then, you rearrange the receipts in the correct order and begin to explain yourself:

North Quarter Sporting Goods

12:59 am Heavy-Duty Backpack

1:13 am Climbing Rope and Harness

1:15 am Black Hiking Boots

Drives for about 15 minutes into the next section of town.

Southside Gas Station

1:32 am Strawberry Snack Cake

1:39 am 10 Gallons of Gas

1:55 am Root Beer Soda Pop

Drives for about 15 minutes into the next section of town but, since Daylight Savings Time is ending, the clocks fall back which causes the timestamps to change from 2 am back to 1 am again.

Eastern District Hardware

1:11 am Glass Cutter

1:14 am Double-Ended Pick Set

1:16 am Bright Flashlight

Drives for about 15 minutes into the next section of town.

Westland Clothing

1:31 am Black Jumpsuit

1:35 am Black Gloves

1:44 am Black Balaclava

Drives for about 15 minutes into the next section of town and, since this is now considered the actual hour, time does not reset and 2 am is finally officially here.

Then, you direct their attention to the Midtown Museum (security footage) again:

2:00 am A figure arrives, wearing a black jumpsuit, gloves, hiking boots, and balaclava. They use a climbing rope and harness to scale the building, a glass cutter to get into the window, a bright flashlight to see in the dark, a double-ended pick set to pick the lock on the diamond case, and a backpack to carry it away. No fingerprints were found, but traces of Strawberry Snack Cake were found on the window and sticky Root Beer was found on the pedestal.

“Now, it all makes sense!” the detective exclaims. “How do we ever solve cases without you?”

“You don’t,” you mutter under your breath before turning and walking away. Dealing with these nincompoops is exhausting. You’re well deserving of a Strawberry Snack Cake and an ice-cold can of Root Beer right about now…

A large murmuring crowd gathered around the Trendil Wagon in the town square of Hangra. The sun was nearly set, and a torch was driven into the ground at each of the four corners around the vehicle. Quade leapt down from the box proudly and looked all around at the eager faces that encompassed him.

“Welcome, one and all,” he projected, extending his arms outward to welcome the onlookers.

A sudden silence arose as anticipation began to build. Kora, the Great Plumed Raven thrust herself off of her elven friend’s shoulder and fluttered her colorful wings as she dipped and flipped and dove, performing many flying tricks as she soared above the heads of the audience. Quade smiled as his traveling partner invoked several “ooh”s and “ahh”s from the spectators.

Then, suddenly, Kora paused her graceful act as her crystal blue eyes settled upon the red hat of a man in the audience. With a loud screech, she seized it with her talons and delivered it to Quade.

“Me travelin’ partner’s brought me a little gift,” he laughed, accepting it and patting Kora lovingly upon her crested head.

“GIFT?!” an angry voice roared, “That’s MY HAT, you impudent dwarf!” The crowd parted as the owner of the voice manifested himself. He was a tall, brutish man with a face meaner than the insults he was shouting. “Tell yer little bird brain to give it back, or else.”

“There, there, my good fellow. Settle down. I’ll have me Kora return your crown,” Quade smiled sheepishly.

But, as he reached for the hat, Kora clamped her claws down upon it and shook her head.

The crowd gasped and laughed. The man grunted.

“Why, Kora! Whatever is the meaning of this?” Quade chuckled.

Kora cackled and chirped.

“You won’t give it back, ey?” Quade replied, “Why not?”

Kora made another series of sounds, bobbing her head, stretching out her wings, and tilting her crest.

“Oh. I see,” Quade nodded, “If that be the case, I’ll put the hat in my sack for safe keepin’.”

“WHAT?!” the man roared in outrage after intently attempting to follow the ‘conversation’ that had just taken place between the dwarf and his feathered friend.

“Well, I’m sorry sir, but it simply isn’t a good idea to give your hat back,” Quade smiled, folding his arms.

“AND WHY NOT?!” the angry man grunted.

“Well, it is the only red hat in the entirety of the crowd,” Quade answered.

“And?” the man asked furiously.

“And you are quite a tall and burly man.”

“AND?!”

“And you are wearing green and brown.”

“AND?!?!”

“And you have a bushy beard.”

Completely outdone, the impatient man grasped Quade by the collar and lifted him from the ground, causing the dwarf’s own feathered hat to fall into the dirt.

“AND, WHAT DOES ALL OF THAT HAVE TO DO WITH THE FACT THAT YOU REFUSE TO RETURN MY HAT?!” he barked.

“Well, you see, sir, it simply puts you in danger,” Quade sung.

“In danger? IN DANGER?” the man laughed. “In danger of what, exactly?”

“Oh, something too horrendous to mention, for, at the sound of his own name, he is incited,” Quade whispered.

The crowd quieted down as the man lowered Quade back to his feet.

“There is a savage within my Trendil Wagon who is peering out of that tiny little hole there,” Quade said pointing, “If he sees a big, tall, burly, green and brown clad, bushy-bearded gentleman wearing a red hat, he will snap and come out to fight you.”

“Fight me?” the man asked mockingly, “If he’s anything like you, it would be him I’m scared for.”

The crowd roared in laughter.

“Lads and lassies, do you wish to meet the Infamous Beau?!” Quade shouted aloud to the crowd.

His ask was met with a conflicted murmuring.

“Shall I return the hat to this gentleman? Or no?” Quade continued.

The crowd was still indecisive.

“I’ll answer your question,” the angry man grinned, snatching his hat from Quade and slapping it back onto his head.

Suddenly, the Trendil Wagon began to shake. Grunts and roars could be heard from within.

“I’m afraid you’ve awakened him, sir!” Quade sang in a quaking voice.

Before the man could look up, the doors to the Trendil Wagon had flung open, and a large, orc-like man had stumbled out of it.

“Beau! Fight! Red! Hat! Man!” he screamed, staring at the hat-wearer angrily.

The man shook his head as his eyes grew large in terror. He backed up and threw the hat off of his own head and it landed upon Quade’s. Too big to fit, it settled over his eyes. Beau’s countenance grew confused as he looked from the man down to Quade, who slowly attempted to lift the hat so that he could see.

“Beau! Fight! Red! Hat! Man!” he repeated, but this time, he was looking at Quade.

Kora began cawing and fluttering her wings in a panic as Quade finally freed his eyes.

“Oh dear,” he gasped as he spotted Beau charging towards him.

Quade took off running in a circle around the Trendil Wagon with Beau close at his heels.

“Beau! It’s me! Your friend!” he panted, but the Gardinbeaufian grasped the back of his shirt and lifted him off the ground.

Kora flew off of Quade’s shoulder but stayed hovering by him as Beau turned him around to face him.

“Red hat man BAD!” he roared, then raised Quade up and threw him into the air.

As he came down, Beau kicked him, sending him skidding back along the dirt and into the crowd. Beau charged over, causing the crowd to part. Quade scampered back, trying to run, but Beau grabbed him and pushed him back into the ring around the wagon.

“Calm down, Beau!” Quade laughed nervously, backing up and avoiding the orc’s swings.

Suddenly, he tripped and fell. Beau drew his arm back and was about to deliver a fatal blow when he suddenly stopped. Kora was fluttering above her traveling partner’s head with the hat clutched tightly in her talons.

“Quade not red hat man,” Beau smiled, taking up the elf and squeezing him tightly.

The crowd seemed to exhale a collective breath, then laugh and clap as Kora returned the hat to its rightful owner.

Taking a bow, Beau collected and quenched the four torches and scurried back into the Trendil Wagon as Quade leapt back onto the box. With a yank of the reins, the Misfits of Taungoun were gone quicker than they came, Kora flapping behind with a sack full of tips from the crowd.

We were camped out in Cloddendale-- did a show just last night. The forests were drawin’ thin here, openin’ out to the deserts beyond that bleed into Syperragg territory. Had the Trendil Wagon parked by a small, rocky hill. Inside, the crew and I slept. We would head north towards Lytelcroft in the morning. Curled up beside myself, I glanced once more at my friends before shutting my eyes. The Gardinbeufian orc, the runaway nymph, the juggler, the dancers, the musicians, and my traveling partner, Kora. Kora the Great Plumed Raven. Perched upon a high rock in the crag, she flew over and landed upon my arm as I extended it and whistled out to her. The moonlight shined through the mouth of the cave, illuminating her silky black feathers and the specks of color around her wings, and about the glorious plume upon her crested head. Her blue eyes glowed as if they were made of polished, bright, blue, precious Ufane stone. She cocked her head and cawed lovingly.

“Good night, Kora,” I exhaled as I closed my eyes and brought her close to me.

She curled herself up under my chin. I felt her soft, warm down, and her gentle breathing. Pretty soon, I was fast asleep.

It wasn’t long though before I awakened. My eyes tried to blink out the darkness that enveloped me, but I couldn’t seem to shake it. I arose to find my loyal Kora alert and standing by me. She pecked and nudged my arm. All I could see of her were her gem-blue eyes. She didn’t make a sound but seemed to be steadfastly staring at the mouth of the cave. I cautiously arose and tiptoed towards the opening. The moon itself seemed to have hidden behind the clouds, but I found my way, listening to the snores of the others and following the chirping of the crickets. Once outside, I looked to my right and to my left. There was absolutely no one to be seen. Quite strange it all was, for, being a dwarf, I was used to being the one on the giving side of the shenanigan, not the fool who was flummoxed by it. I whispered something to Kora and she took off into the air, her crystal eyes searching the forest diligently.

“See anything?” I asked in a breath.

She descended onto my shoulder and settled her feathers with a shake of her ornate head. Suddenly, from behind, I sensed a presence. Turning quickly on my heels, I came face to belly with Pyket.

“I should have known, you sleazy rascal,” I scoffed.

The feller was a notorious “dwarf” from Taungoun, just as I. Only he was bigger, and fatter. If there was a line between being a dwarf and not, that man was surely an inch over the edge. Besides his great size, Pyket was also known for stealing and making underhanded deals. Feared by all who are anywise familiar with him, I doubt he had a friend in the world besides Nook, his black raven. Most dwarves partnered with ravens, but his was bigger than any I’d ever seen. Fitting for such a large oaf as he. He stared down into my eyes as Nook stared down into Kora’s.

“Whatever do ya want with me, followin’ me around so?” I asked indignantly.

“You know exactly what I want,” he growled.

“Let’s not assume,” I chuckled with a smirk, “Might ye remind an old chap?”

“Four weeks ago, in Dryhtenhaven, you and your traveling buffoons stole a shiny, golden coin, with a ruby red Ufane stone in the center, from a young lad watching your show,” he huffed hurriedly, “THAT COIN WAS MINE.”

“We?! Stole?!” I laughed. “Preposterous.”

Pyket grasped me by the collar and lifted me off the ground. The look in his mismatched, discolored eyes spelled h-a-r-m. His thick, scarred eyebrows ruffled, and his lips curled up to reveal crooked teeth in a sinister grin.

“This is no laughing matter, puny elf,” he murmured. “Now, where is that coin?”

“This thing you describe...” I smiled. “...it sounds marvelous, but I have never seen such a spectacle in my life.”

“You have two options, Quade,” he whispered, yanking me gruffly, “give up the coin, or pay another way.”

“I tell you truth, the precious thing for which you ask has never passed into my grasp,” I said firmly.

“Quade!” he roared impatiently. “The lad told me that he volunteered for one of your tricks, presented the coin, and you made it disappear.”

“This lad… he surely must have lied. I do not possess what you have described,” I sung.

“That horrendous patterned speech!” he stomped, throwing me to the ground. “You’ve got a trick up your sleeve.”

“Maybe I have, but just for a laugh,” I smirked, sitting up and brushing myself off.

“Crack one more wit and I’ll snap you in two,” Pyket snarled in a menacing tone.

Despite his comment, him attacking me was the least of my worries. My heart was frozen for Kora, who was fluttering gracefully over me- for Nook had his green eyes locked upon her, and his talons were gripping Pyket’s shoulder as if he were about to launch himself into the air and devour my precious plumed raven whole.

“Alright! Alright!” I rushed, “I’ll give you the gold. It belonged to you, so now I’m told. If I had known this at the first, I would have done something far worse. But since you’re behaving at your best, I’ll give to you what you request.”

Saying this, from my pocket I drew a gold coin. Snatching it furiously, Pyket stormed off into the dark of the night, Nook crowing furiously back at us over his shoulder. Once he was far out of reach, I exhaled and smiled at my crested companion.

“The sun’s a-risin’ now,” I smirked, drawing another golden coin from my pocket. As I flipped it, the faint rays of morning light caught sight of the ruby-red Ufane stone in the center of it.

“He’ll be back when he finds it’s a fake, I’m sure, my feathered friend,” I chuckled, “Let’s wake the others and start on our way before he does.”

We progressed slowly up the walk and Beatrice held on tightly to my hand. As the lead caretaker answered the door, she spilled her ruse and I stared into blank space.

“I found him on the side of the road. I asked if he was lost, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. I’ve never seen him around town before,” Beatrice carried on in such a convincing way that I would have believed her if it hadn’t been myself she was talking about. I simply fixed my eyes upon the floor and zipped my lips. My mind was racing… were my parents involved in some illegal business? Why did everyone have to lie and act so suspicious all of a sudden? Why had I really been hidden away in that mansion all my life? Perhaps I was thinking too hard about it all. Surely, I’d read too many fables and fairytales… but, some were biographies and Bible stories…

“Come, child! Tell us your name,” the older woman said, yanking me out of my thoughts and back to the present. I looked at Beatrice. The expression on her face let me know it was alright to say it because no one on the outside had ever heard my name before. I didn’t exist.

“If you won’t tell me your name, at least tell Ms. Gertrude,” she smiled.

I glanced back at the old woman. My name wouldn’t sound right coming out of anyone else’s mouth, I surmised. I’d heard only six people say it before, and I would never hear them say it again. It just wouldn’t be the same. My name was a memory. Hearing my name called aloud would only serve to remind me of everything that was once connected to it. My heart began to beat faster. My eyebrows furrowed. I looked Ms. Gertrude straight in the eye and said, “I don’t have one.”

“What, young man?” she asked, quite taken aback.

“I don’t have a name,” I repeated.

“Why certainly, that can’t be true,” she said kindly, kneeling down. “Where are your parents?”

“I don’t have any parents,” I said nonchalantly.

“I’m sorry to hear that…” she said in a low voice. “Might I ask what happened to them?”

“I don’t have any,” I said again.

“How did you get here in London?” she asked with a look of concern. “Did you grow up here?”

I shrugged and looked to the ground again.

She pursed her lips and shook her head. Then, she stood up and said a few more words to Beatrice.

“Don’t worry, lad. We will take care of you here,” she smiled, looking at me again,

“You’ll open up soon, and then we’ll find you a nice, loving family.”

I did not make eye contact.

“I pray the best for you, young man,” Beatrice said, taking my hands and gazing into my eyes one last time. She pulled me into a hug and whispered, “Ms. Gertrude will take great care of you.”

...did she really? That's what she told herself. That's what she told everyone. But, inside, she was dying. Slowly. Dying. She felt an overwhelming sense of dread and stress and torment, even to the point where she could no longer cry any tears. She kept the smile up for everyone in public. She tried to be there for those who were having a hard time. She pushed everything she was feeling aside, as it could not be worse than what others were dealing with. She was supposed to be thankful. She was supposed to be grateful. She was blessed. She really was. Why, then, did she feel this way?

She didn't know why. She didn't want to feel it. She didn't want to feel. She wanted to go back to the days when she was invincible. Where she could help others and not feel bad inside. She would go into her room and try to cry, but her eyes refused to produce any tears. She couldn't explain how she felt... a person who is friendly to everyone but doesn't have any friends. A person who is there as a shoulder to lean on and an ear to talk to but... was there anybody available to reciprocate?

People tried sometimes. They tried. They tried to listen and they tried to provide advice. They told her everything was fine. That she needed to be grateful. That she needed to stop letting depression drag her down. That she needed joy. She knew these things... She just couldn't do anything about it, and that made her sad. It made her feel very bad. There was no reason she shouldn't be happy. She was blessed. She had her bare necessities. People would love to be in her position; so many people who were worse off than her. She felt ungrateful... she had to have been ungrateful. Why else did she feel like this?

She prayed. She journaled. She poured our her heart in her closed quarters, mourning with dry eyes. Then, she'd take a deep breath and go back out into the world; flower in hair. Colorful clothes. Soft smile. Bubbly personality.

Nothing was wrong. Nothing could be wrong. If something was wrong, she wouldn't be like that, would she?

She sat there on the couch that evening, staring into blank space.

Contemplating.

So many people depended on her...

...they thought nothing ever bothered her.

She told them it did, but they didn't believe her. They thought that, if she really felt emotions besides happiness, if she really felt pain, if she really had a reaction to anything, she would show it and that would be enough. She'd be unruly. She'd frown. and be mean when she's having a bad day. She'd fuss at people she disagreed with instead of having polite conversations and knowing when to stop and pray for them, leave them alone. She'd rant on and on about how everything was going wrong. She wouldn't work seven days a week. How could a person work seven days a week and be nice to everyone if she didn't enjoy the job? How could she act like this if she was going through stuff? She wouldn't be able to comfort others if she was in need of comforting. She wouldn't be like she was if she was really--

No one knew how it happened. She was just lying there on the couch. She was still smiling, too, and she had a flower in her hair. Her eyes were closed as if she were only asleep, but her heart had stopped.

I was the one called in to investigate the situation. After a couple of holidays passed and no one received her encouraging text messages or saw her inspirational posts on social media, they got worried and tried to check on her. They found her. Just like this. That's when they called us.

He headed into the kitchen to search for any evidence of poison while I looked over the rest of her belongings... read through her journals... nothing indicated she could have ended her own life. Everything yelled happiness, sunshine, and rainbows. She was blessed. But, there was no evidence of forced entry into the house. There were no suspects. Everyone only had good things to say about her. She had no visitors at her home. She never did. Only her family and God were her closest friends, as she liked to say, and neither her parents or siblings were around at the time. In all this... I found her computer. I searched her writing. She wrote stories... but they were just stories. She had a vivid imagination. She made worlds in her mind. None of the things found there could be clues to anything... could they?

Then, I found a red book. A little red book with a golden lock. Red was her favorite color, wasn't it? It was quite obvious. The password was quite obvious, too. 467. As in Philippians 4:6-7: Be anxious for nothing. Easy enough to crack. She wasn't anxious. Ever. I skimmed through the pages... there, I saw the words written in crimson ink: help me. Help Me. PLEASE. HELP ME.

I closed the book. I looked back at the couch.

It couldn't be true, though, could it?

Could she have done this?

I stood there, glancing over at the girl resting graciously upon the couch with her eccentric style and quaint spirit... I could still feel her positivity radiating. I couldn't stand it any longer. I broke down, fell to my knees, and started to cry...

...real tears.

My partner rushed in and knelt by my side. He asked if everything was okay. I held his hand, looked into his eyes, and smiled.

"Yeah. I think I am now."

I just realized I didn't share the article here.

Last year-- ehrm, two years ago now XD -- I shared a preview of my An Intern for Christmas audio drama I was working on in 2021 and said you guys would have to wait 365 days for the complete version. Well, I managed to finally publish it on December 28, 2022. If anyone here was waiting, I apologize for not updating you all. I'll keep the text very short and sweet. The link will explain the rest. Thanks again, God bless, and I pray you all have a safe and wondrous new year. <3

https://www.worldanvil.com/w/secret-agent-someone/a/an-intern-for-christmas--plot

Dim night.

Candlelight.

Table set for two.

I stare down at the shiny plate at my expression, blue.

My weak smile hides my weary eyes.

My calm demeanor masks the tumult in my brain.

My steady heartbeats drown out the ache--

Alas, I awake.

It was all a dream.

I sigh.

In reality, work will be on my Thanksgiving plate.

Followed by dinner with them...

...and a side of inevitable thoughts of you.

You know that state of feeling broken?

Breathing and living but something seems wrong and you're not exactly sure what?

Thinking you should probably ask for help but you're not sure there's a person on Earth who can understand or know how to assist?

Not wanting to worry others...?

or bother them...?

or burden them...?

You're too empathetic, perhaps.

Feeling feelings when you'd rather not?

Too weak to ignore the voices?

The pulling?

The heart aching?

Muttering 'Help me' to God every other second of the day?

You want to be okay...

You just want to be okay...

So you smile.

You stay kind.

You keep worries in the back of your mind.

But they try to escape.

And, eventually, they do get out, don't they?

They hack their way straight through your heart, leaving you

...broken...

But you don't want to be broken, do you?

You're thankful for God's blessings big and small, right?

You know that, in the end, it will all work out.

It'll all be good.

So you keep going?

Keep pushing?

Keep helping?

Keep loving?

Keep growing?

Keep floating?

Keep holding together on the outside though, on the inside, you're broken?

No?

Oh.

...maybe it's just me.

:)

You can point to the base of your thumb and figure out

where I come from...

You can say Three-One-Three and folks know just where you're talking about

where I come from...

Call it The D, call it Motor City, call it Motown or Hitsville, USA

where I come from...

If you're born on March 13th like me, you have to share with the holiday that celebrates

where I come from...

We're our own little melting pot, we got black, white, red, yellow, and brown

where I come from...

And if you don't know yet, you soon will see. Just take a look around the town

where I come from.