Words fail when I think of thanking you for this visit to your exquisite writers' colony. All, most all, of my time here has been spent in the company of words. I have been starved by the lack of them and smothered by the quantity of them. In the silence of the hollow I have known my own words. I pull to leave and they say, "No, it is not time yet. It cannot be time to leave. Wait, just wait 'til you see what we have planned for tomorrow." They don't know that they are coming, too. With me. All my words or at least that is the way I think it is. But, if some decide to stay in order to finish their word business who am I to say no? Some say Eureka Springs is a ghost haven. Perhaps, also, it is a place to hold all the words that writers leave behind. What a vision that puts to mind. A word here, three over the ridge, seven in the Iris grove, eight up the steep hill that leads to the ghostly hotel. But never mind, that. This is possibly, merely a farewell until next time. Yes. Next time I will catch those exact words and those left by others. Then I plan to start with a mishmosh of good hardy words to write my . . . what? We'll just have to wait and see. Wait until next time, Dairy Hollow. I'll not forget you surrounded by your collection of the finest of writers' words.