It's this story; I know Wayne Henry, you know Wayne Henry. We are all Wayne Henry. The Narrative picks up in a seedy room in a motor inn at the forgotten slum of South Florida. Enter Wayne Henry. Or rather Wayne Henry's shoe tapping the narrator (unreliable or reliable, you be the judge) tapping the narrator on the ribs as he comes to from an alcohol infused nap on the floor of this moldy and dim set. Old friends brought together through as you will find, no mystery at all, it was always meant to be this way. Through many rants and rails and denials and confessions the two feed into each other's ultimate destiny. One will run, one will stick and in the end they will become the self same identity. With a Cryptic Chapter Three absent of all words but certainly provoking thought in the outright absence of text and a satchel full of poems appended of the musings o' Wayne Henry culled from the trunk of a rented Dodge Viper somewhere on the highway between Miami and Alaska you are guaranteed a ride. I threw the book down in anger the first time through. I tossed it aside in disappointment the second read through. And I devoured the meaning like a six course meal the subsequent ten times through. I want you to meet Wayne Henry but my quest to find him as only led me further and further inward as each note cut against the grain and made me revalue the tenuous beliefs we all must face if there is to be any truth anywhere.