"I'm a pathetic man," he thought, and wondered if proclaiming this
proudly would be worth etching upon the page, but decided against it,
as who would want to hear the story of a man trapped in his own
thoughts, smothered in his own shadow, without friends, who had to
wake up to smoke cigarettes to fall back again to sleep?  Against the
background of the night, wandering under electric cables carrying
trolleys on rain-soaked sidewalks ceasing to be the work of man but
crafted of some nothingness built only on the spectacle of mind, he
felt too old, too experienced for this world that cherished youth but
cherished more so the dying, the dead, those perished on the altar of
the mundane, too true for they who pretended darkness, the reckless
youth who strutted the decaying cities as playgrounds