The dreams are theirs. Those with the easy laughter and healthy complexions. They are comfortable in their designer skins. Making the ‘hard’ decisions for us. You have your anger. You hold it tight lest they take that too. Easy to nurture and never absent, it goes where you go – “uptown, downtown, all around”. You know anger, you know pain, like Jack knew time. Dead now, his sodden soul awash in the lees of a bottle of rye glistening in the gutter, the peeling label his epitaph. The night is cool and the streets of perdition are sweetly rank with rotting garbage and dead hopes. You grew up in these streets by the light of day, and the street-lamp. Streets alive with palpable energy and unbounded love. The old man with his beer on the stoop on a balmy summer night. Your mother old before her time holding your angelic little sister by the hand recalling faded dreams of a new start and a better life. The cacophony of kids playing mad games on the pavement and the idle gossip of adults that had you enthralled. Day by day it all slipped away into that dark place where time and happiness go, along with your dreams. Gone forever.