The foggy mists of the crossroads, right before sunrise. Dusty, but not so isolated. I often find myself here. Waiting, Dreaming, watching. People wander through this place all the time. The rum is flowing. I know I am dreaming, the rum never runs out nor does the rum sting the throat. Smooth. As usual, the old black man sits there waiting for me with his canes. He gently tips his hat, looks up and smiles.

Introduction and Disclaimer: