Several hours before the sun was scheduled to set on the day after he moved in,
someone got shot to death in an alley a block from his new apartment.
It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon but he was still stuck fast in bed,
so shattered by the effects of depression and bottom-shelf whiskey he could barely move.
He heard the gun,
fired thrice,
and then he heard a man yell twice for help.
Not thirty seconds later the sirens started singing,
and he rolled over and into an even deeper depression.
The kind of depression where you kick yourself for not being out there,
and available,
in an alley a block from your new apartment,
to get yourself shot to death on a beautiful Saturday afternoon.
…