When we started this journey, did we have any idea where it would go?

Sure, we had a destination, a plan, an X on an ancient, tattered map

Turn West at El Tenedor del Diablo and continue for ten paces

Until you reach that enigmatic Future where treasure is said to be buried

Well what fucking treasure is this? Not a chest of gold, not jewels

And what of those who never reach that place where “X marks the spot”?

What happens when you miscount, take nine steps instead of ten

And find yourself digging and digging and digging for nothing?

We get lost in our own tangled decisions, snared like a fly in a web

Misdirected by people who give us wrong instructions, the wrong map

Perhaps men are the wiser sex in never stopping to ask for directions