Can you remember, on our filmy sun days how the forty-second street motor squirmed, and you laughed about how we could never be saviors on such grand railways? When Mario Moreno died, a giant bright flag echoed his essence on me. With such a fury that cannon blew, and we understood where he was headed. A cigarette yawned where we left that ill-faithed rag, the sullied organ rattling a sore throat through that long, long opus. and that sweet heaven of sin and lustful valor, where a tiny soul pounded in a Christmas card you sent, that reminisced and told a vivid howl about a steelyard.