It was right around the time 6th Avenue became the Avenue of the Americas. A few weeks after Michael sawed poor Angel into a few crude pieces in his claw foot tub. I can't recall what it was but there was always a lot of it. It looked like Nestlé hot cocoa powder but tasted like dirt. I still hop into cabs and say "47 West 20th" before the door closes without even thinking. But things are different now. Blue Jean Baby and I are doing all right. We made it out alive, somehow. Were there nights we tried to die on purpose? Sure. We've all felt worthless. Stared into mirrors and only seen the shower curtain or the tile. Seen right through the 22 bones that make up our skull. "Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you'll marry a music man... " I'd left her a note in the medicine cabinet so she'd read it later before bed. Had a friend who had 3 cats. Named them Dura, Arachnoid and Pia. Don't ask. Before my time. I never found out why. I never asked how, I always just closed the door, put my head down and figured it out myself. And now, walking home alone along Fifth Avenue I find myself trying to figure it all out again. Trying to fit all the puzzle pieces together before I even unwrap the box with a yellow highlighter in my mouth at the back of the bus. Had a friend who collected Bulldog skulls. Must've been a love/hate Yale thing. Just a few of us sitting around on an unfinished wood floor discussing the "The Great Seal" and the three nails beneath it all in gold in a field framed in maroon with silver fleurs-de-lis on the edge. And where is this dude? We called 2 hours ago. There was a scroll, which if I recall correctly, rested on a field where tongues of fire were displayed, recalling the outpouring of the Holy Spirit of Wisdom that marked the first Pentecost. Naturally. I had two gorgeous red Dobermanns at the time, Sapienta and Doctrina (Wisdom and Learning in Latin, thank you very much). Both had natural ears. They were gentle, loyal, loving, and intelligent. Came everywhere with me. Table for three, always. Day after day I'd run into a guy on the Promenade who'd swear Sapienta was somehow related to either Bingo von Ellendonk or one of the poor angels who died in Battle of Guam back in '44. Doctrina would just stand there like "But what about me?". Eventually I had to change my route to avoid Montague and Middagh because this guy just wouldn't quit. One of those neighborhood guys. You know the type. Probably worth a few million and collected rent from Norman Mailer in one of them ivy covered townhouses but lived like a bum. But anyway, I should really get going. I'll see you around.