There exists in rural America, a breed of stoic males who elect to spend the last days of their lives living alone in relative isolation. Their spouse has either died or has long since left them after the child rearing days have passed and the emotional contract has expired. These bitter brutes have found a simple cabin in the woods and now spend their waning days waiting for the grim reaper to swing his scythe in their direction and harvest their souls. Their lifetime trophies and treasures adorn their meager residences and they surround themselves with the necessities of life: guns and alcohol. Above the mantle are mounted game who mistakenly crossed the path of the great hunter and paid the ultimate price; a permanent home looking at the wall opposite his fireplace. Scattered about are a few pictures of their military service, a cherished classic car, a motorcycle and a couple of young children who later grew up and disappointed their father immensely. The young pictures never made the roaring fireplace, because at that point in their lives, father knew best. Strewn about are knives, tools, winter clothing and male orientated magazines that reveal information about the outside world. A girly magazine lays next to the bed to solve the loneliness episodes that ARISE on occasion. The vast majority of men know when the end is closing in and thus maintenance of their home and equipment becomes lax. No sense painting a wall for someone else who doesn’t like his color choice. The cabin and garage become a museum of junk and in a short time, the Angel of Abrupt Endings pays his lone visit and the forgotten man ceases to exist. The surviving offspring lack the funds or energy to assess the material possessions left behind and hire a local auction house. As hundreds of strangers shuffle through his treasure trove and examine all that is left behind, for its resale value, no one thinks of the wretched owner who spent a lonely lifetime on this sordid planet.