HOW DID I EVER GET HERE?
There are degrees of everything : heat and guilt,
probability and drama. I won't detail the beginnings
of this at all, but just keep on. The reflection is of two
different sides. Both look back at each other.
-
At the end of this lane is a shaded, private walk :
the gate is most always closed, yet right now it is
open and I shall go in. Enter the realm of the misbegotten;
a place written of as MacDougal Alley if written of at
all. A hundred years ago this street was a den of both
thieves and gentility too. All this, as one, together; the
industrialists and the dark ones lurking. Stolen, and
doing time together.
-
I had to consider myself fortunate to be living there.
And I was, oh yes, I was.
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