How did this happen. 3AM leaning on Atlas Shrugged with a full ashtray and an empty glass. Where is John Galt now. Where are these signs that young latina women see when they venture the field alone. Where is the high life without words. Without need or ash. A clean purgatory without need of prayer. I'm climbing that mountain, The forgotten middle of the Divine Comedy. There is no late Roman poet as guide. There is only clocks and pills and cigarettes and booze. Beatrice has moved to Phoenix, Brutus worked for Lehman Brothers.

Another raw naked day. After drinking half a bottle a coin was flipped. A time worn roman coin given a a gift. It flipped heads and spelled compulsion to go out. Alone as always I put my boot foot forward as everyone and walked poorly as the similar slept. Hitting a bar I drank and started a fight that I can't remember the end to. I'm not cut and have no signs of bleeding so it went as well as it could. The train has left the track.

Sometimes I put a nice shirt on and read the Inquirer with a cheap brown bottle. Those times usually end badly. Good times are passed out fully clothed with ink stained hands and a headache. Bad times are aching scared hands and a head, slow moving regret smoke visions of women with bare legs on bar stools and tough men with hard fists in bad neighborhoods. Most often I end up in bed having ended another thing. These ending of things takes a toll. Eventually you're paid out and the only turn is towards the river cold and rapid; where peace lies in the freezing and not in the fire warmth of others.

Beat down and street burned - high wind warnings all around. Another rough coffee day with only flashes and cuts from the night before. Lost bleeding weak men roam these streets - Atlantic City thugs who are deep and empty. Impostor wealth in sport coats stumbling the restaurants of Market Street looking for french cakes and high end shots. Naked men sleeping under thin blankets by trashcans shivering over steam vents on Juniper as high heeled women howl with clutched hand bags on their way to the bar. Stuffed collar christ men handing the new testament to cross walk crowds by city hall. The dead eyed millions struck by fierce wind to bend spines - a dead moon to crush us leaving a ruined speechless empire behind.

This is a beginning for this thing. A birth.