It was a cold dark day upon the hill of the house where he slept in hell and dreamed in fire. But the only relief was the sound of his WWII records. It soothed him. He couldn't breathe without the sound of the music to his ears, and without the sound of the slow scratch before and after the record played. He cant get no relief, there must be some kind of way out of his hell he wonders, but the only part of his body that still moves are his eyes.
             He was hit by a car in '98 and he was to be star quarterback and have a beautiful girlfriend and have a happy life until this happened and then it came to him that if he could see her face instead of her face on a cold, granite tombstone. He would have graduated and gone to Harvard or Yale on a scholarship to one of these colleges. But no, to become one with the still and rot and wonder what his other friends lives are like and what they are doing now. He has to watch his flowers grow and the oak tree die in silence.
             To make your life great you must first think of your future and people die everyday and people die without remorse or sorrow. To look at someone passing by you who has handicaps, to pass by a bum and not look or smile or give any sign of him sitting there even though it is not their fault. They probably led a better life than you could imagine or even will have much better thoughts than you did. They, the ones who fell behind, they, the ones who didn't catch on, they, the ones who had nothing to do with it. They are the most caring people I know of and having met some. Most of all they are like me. The same.
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