I’ve been coming here for the last four years. I knew what I would find.

I would find what I lost on the other side. What I cannot reach.

I don’t see a solution. I feel we may always be separated.

If only I get could get a message through.

“I’m ok. I’m here.”

“I miss you.”

I am Cone Alone.

I walk the line

That truck is too close!

It’s so hot out here!

And if that idiot I work with doesn’t stop singing that Tom Cochran song I’m going to “accidentally” knock him into oncoming traffic. I’d much rather listen to Stephen Malkmus’ old band.

I can barely control my road rage.

I am Cone Alone.

A sign blame

I didn’t even want to be here.

And now my parents or legal guardian will find out and I’m going to be in big trouble. And then I can’t ask you-know-who (not Voldemort, duh) to the prom. And then my life will be ruined.

All because I let my friends talk me into this stunt.

We should have stopped, but we didn’t. We couldn’t.

This is a bad sign.

I should have been octagone by now.

I am soooo grounded.

I am Cone Alone.

No escape hatch (act)

I already know that because I’m employed by the Conetral Intelligence Agency (CIA) I have limits on my political activities.

But thanks for the visual metaphor.

I am surrounded by heavy-handed idiots.

I am Cone Alone.

Gomer pile

I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess these idiots went a little overkill on the camp fire.

They really should just leaf things to me instead of branching out on their own.

At least that wood truncate the need to fix things later.

I elm annoyed.

I am Cone Alone.