text: My old man is a lone locksmith who was locked in his own loneliness. His remaining days and monotonous nights are spent by dancing in the shadow of sadness. For this reason, he made me to keep him company; to have something to hold on to while he continue to exist. But do mind that I am no Pinocchio; because I cannot speak a word to ease his sorrows. Nor be by his side as he stare at the horizon, wondering where does it end or would it ever do. I am merely a tool that has a will birthed from his blue colored heart. And along these lines, he created me with no particular peculiarity nor bewitching beauty. I have none of those remarkable characteristics that may differentiate me from any other keys crafted by his poor, calloused hands. Out of his old wife's cheap wedding ring with his dead daughter's earrings, he forged me altogether. Pleased by the result, (although there is nothing pleasing about my appearance) he tied me on a black cord to hang around his saggy neck. Once in a while, he would hold me and rub me gently on his frequent nostalgic periods. Sometimes, he would remove me from my string only to put me onto his palm, gaping at me until the clock's hand disappeared to the oblivion. His eyes are lacking of emotions; as if it was tired of mirroring his soul. Or perhaps, there wasn't any left to reflect anymore. As the unceasing time passed forth, I started to wonder: what is my purpose? I am a key: a device for opening locks and such, yet I have never been used in accordance to the purpose I serve. What is his intent then for making me? A daily memento of his both deceased wife and daughter? How pathetic it would be if that is so. I am a key, my meaning is to unlock. But why was I not used in the way I should be? With nothing to do, I ponder, and ponder, and ponder why. If I was to be only a remembrance, why reconstruct me into a key? Why not keep the ring and earrings as it is? Do I hold further importance than just being a rusty keepsake of his family? While I continue to seek my significance, eventually his dusk came. One day, he went to his bed, never rising from his slumber ever again. His true and only friend, who is also a good carpenter, found him three days after. He looked at his rigid and cold carcass for hours, as if mourning silently, then left. After a while, he came back with his son, bringing along a casket made from wood at exactly my maker's size. He then instructed his son, a fine young man; to probe my Father's belongings. He on the other hand, groped my old man's body as if finding something on him. He search and search, then finally, his search soon landed on the locksmith's chest, getting a hold of me. My old man is a lone locksmith who was locked in his own loneliness. His remaining days and monotonous nights are spent by dancing in the shadow of sadness. For this reason he made me: a quite common key which opens his coffin. I am his gateway to his long-desired escape: in the arms of death, where his sweethearts in the otherworld awaits. He was freed at last, from his agony he called...life.