I might have met an angel tonight. His name was Crash, and he smelled of cheap liquor. My only penance for the disquiet of his spirit was the solace of offering him a clove cigarette. He told me he was a true American, and I could only see irony in the statement as I knew the bench he sat on would be his bed this night. After I told him I studied English, he shared with me the good times he had in his earlier days at school. He reminisced on the times he would carve crosses in his arm during English class -- "it was my favorite subject!" he said.
His greatest advice? -- "Don't get too busy! They will steal what you already have! Don't let them steal what you already have!"
I left him to his darkness as he continued to mumble at me. David Crowder's "Obsession" filled my head. Smoke from my lungs intermingled with the steam from the crisp December air. Each street lamp burned its brightest but gave no light.
"Don't let them steal your shit," he continues to say to me. "Don't let them steal it!"
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