I cast the coin down the well, It was not the first coin, It wouldn't be the last. I dropped it knowing it wouldn't make a sound. Just a cry to a void. A wish I had no courage in. But I dropped it. Just to admit that it existed. Or for the stinging of the edges to stop for a while. I stared down at that well, A dark hole with nothing to offer but a moment of l'appel du vide, for a lack of an English substitute. Accepting its silence, I turned to leave. Back to the hum drum buzzing of a day to day world. But all off a sudden, It was there. A pinging, followed by a loud clattering. Following by many ringing pieces of metal settling at the bottom of a long stone pit. A sound far greater than any coins I could throw. How many people had thrown there coins down here? How many cries, how many fears, how many hands wrapped painfully tight around a metal coin, had found their way to this isolated well? ...I seldom read, but in doing so now, I wonder if poems and stories, were our well. In which we cast the hidden emotions of today as many others had, just to admit that these pains existed. That we existed. Though isolated we were. And to be met, not with silence. But with an echoed metal ringing. To be met with knowing that our pains and our wishes had truly existed. That our pain was not as isolated as our well was once thought to be. (As you cast your coins into this void. I pray my coins ring brightly through the darkness, and find their way to you.)