Folded Thought of the Day:

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Memoirs of a Forgotten Man
-- A setting

In this quarter, the dogs travel in packs.  Sniffing out an 
existence.  Taking turns rolling over.  Dragging what remains 
of their leashes in a scraping testimony of freedom.  Masters 
all gone on to some better place.  An other-worldly procession.  
Still, there are moments, in the alley's of a night's wandering, 
when a dog will come upon a set of beaten eyes or a howling 
voice, and stop dead in its tracks.  Who can say?

Time passes.  A suspended animation going down.  Lives touched, 
marked by the passing hand, left over to the century.  Waiting 
their turn at the big wheel.  Amazed at their own lack of good 
fortune.  Throwing back consolation prizes.  Tossing away 
dreams.  Coming back for more.  One more shot at the big score.

Yes, business is good tonight.. and we have far to go.  Just a 
little more surrender around here than you can be comfortable 
with.  And nobody's closing the books on the latest bet.  Things 
are just heating up.  A final solution to an ever-recurring 
situation.  They're coming out of the woodwork to get a glimpse.. 
to cash in.  An electricity in the air.  Cutting through the 
fabric.  Slicing along the borders.  Attracting the elements of 
a city's mindscape.  

Even the aging mad scientist is making an appearance -- the 
sullen, abandoned feather of a man, who once commanded the 
attention of kings and queens with his brilliant theories 
and thrilling demonstrations -- out on the town tonight for 
a piece of the action.  

Sirens greet your arrival to street level.  Awakening your 
seclusion.  Whistle stops blanket the ground.  Catching 
eyes, diverting attention.. hidden anticipation.  Look up, 
beyond the city's outline, through the cloudy present, fix 
your gaze on a point in the sky, a star beaming glory, 
grounding your presence, calibrating your inner sense and 
leveling the mapped distance.  

Wait your turn at the corner.  They've got a lot of souls 
to account for tonight.  You understand.  Declare your 
intentions.  The night is young and you're taking this 
one step at a time.  

And it doesn't take long.. parallel universes are running 
wild out here.  Steps, strides, legs, eyes.  Craning heads, 
glances down unchosen paths.  

She is beside you, close, hungry.  You know the look.  
Wait.. these things take time.. have a life of their own.  

She is speaking to you in riddles.  Or so it seems.  A 
fevered staccato, making its own sense, nothing to do with 
you, but you are the one listening.. walking now, side by 
side, together.  She is asking for your help, you pick this 
much up, references to a long-gone mother and an unspeakable 
phantom close behind... keeping up the pace.

She must know that you cannot help her, that she is too far 
removed from the time that help might have arrived to deliver 
her safely from the tower's descending hold.  A white-knight 
fairy tale hope, implanted at an early age, in bedtime's 
safety.. in a frail voice that never quite made it to the 
happy ending.  Left to drift now among nightmare shores, 
seeking miracle kisses from dark-clad strangers, comforted 
now in the blanket understanding between the two of you.  

As your arm finds its way around her shoulder both of you 
stop briefly, to let it pass.  One of you smiles.



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