Each step brings another morning, and
all things have been gathered up. There's
no other way of looking : the girl from
England, who was with me once, she's
gone now. Sitting at that tavern, outside,
with that beer - it's all over now. The boats
are gone from the wharfside edge, and even
the building's been taken down. That was all
old Fulton Street - the edge of the East River,
about the time that last sailor had left.
Ten years before that, I was nothing, and now,
twenty more years layer, I am nothing again.
A ghost would have more luck in a fog than I
would on the clearest day imaginable. Taking
nothing away from anyone else, I am one of
the biggest jerks who has ever lived.