Edgar Dallhous made trinkets in his garage. The boondocks a term for back country or off the beaten trail, is the small inlet of a place where nothing grows.

A young boy approached the home. He passed two other secluded yet visible dismay homes along the trail.
A teenage ballerina appeared to be speeding off from her home leaving what appeared to be some sort of family quandary.

The boy paused and took notice of the mailbox labelled Marsh.
Continuing to make his way to the front door, he took notice of the heavy pines surrounding the three houses as though barricading them in like a canopy.

A farm house with only one adult and one other boy.
The boy knocks and the other boy answers.
The boy inside stares at the boy on the porch, then without words walks him to the garage where Edgar tinkers.

"Pa, I think he is here for you!
Hello are you Edgar, sir?
(Taking off his plastic eye wear protection, Edgar replies) I am!
I have no place to go, I need help.
You're Stevie's boy aren't ya?
I am sir.
Terrible fire. Sorrowful indeed, yet you're here?
Please sir I need somewhere to shelter... from well what happened.
My brother didn't kill you, and yet you found me.
I'll be no trouble, you're the only family I know of sir!"

Out of the impending rain that was due to fall, Audi was given shelter by the trinket maker and his boy Fox. He was safe. He was determined and also free from the performances he witnessed in the rain that was his mother's life.

It would be here on this land hidden amongst nature that the boy would learn that passion for objects was crucial.

People cannot help whom they are born into, a phrase the young Fox would cement into Audi's memory.

The studying and patience Audi had through his youth was paying off. He could mimic actions, and charade his emotions to match what he yearned.

He could craft.
He could make art imitate life.
He describes the sculptures as those men have no identity.

"I want an identity, I want to be on stage!"

Edgar called him a point Dexter, as Audi's keenness of ample abilities shone through the angst built up within his young body.

The easel that poised itself amongst the sculpted images of figure heads, hosted a sketch of another man. This caught Edgar by surprise as he noticed a familiarity in theme within the young Marsh's space.

"Why do you sculpt males, boy?
    Because I want to be perfect, I want to be chosen.
What do you call this (pointing at the sketch)
    Soprano, the main character!
You know there can only be one soprano, and it should be you not an object of desire!"

Words he didn't take lightly. A contest he wouldn't lose again. A name he wouldn't go by, a stage of his own.

O how he yearned for more!

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