He had told he'd be going, that he'd be trying his best to be able to stay. This country of "opportunities" is what he wanted for himself. Not just only that but what he already had here. It is strange though how people like him are penalized for doing things the right way, the endorsed way, the legal way. He wonders to himself how it's no wonder so many people come here illegally.

He went to the city, he left the snow thinking he would find a warmer place there, or at least a more comfortable one. All he found was a complicated maze of streets, highways and bypasses that told him so much yet not where he wanted to go. He told me as he laughed, "I got lost a couple of times." Now that I think about it, that laugh seemed to be marked with a hint of irony.

We talked over cheap coffee and even cheaper snack foods at his more-than-normal run down apartment. If you had been me you could've seen how systematically his way of life got closer and closer to poverty. His coffee tasted more like water painted brown and scented with caffeine, his food was old and stale. "Hey! It's still edible." He said, "And if it's still edible it's still good." Half of what we ate was over it's expiration date.

His cigarettes hadn't changed and the fact that most of his trash consisted of ash and cigarette butts told me that it was a habit he wasn't prepared to lose. Maybe it was what little good he still had around him, his way of killing himself slowly without having to blame anyone except himself. He hadn't even emptied his ashtray, he does this because I've caught him several times digging through it trying to find a butt with still enough tobacco to light up. I offered him to buy him a pack but all he said was "It's OK. I'm trying to quit anyway."

The paints around the kitchen was peeling off. It wasn't the best apartment around but you couldn't really see that when he first moved in, he kept it tidy and clean, at least as much as he could. Now it looks as though he's lived here a few years without ever taking the trash out. I can honestly say that his cat was better nourished than he is right now. His face was paler than usual, his body looked frail and skinny, he looked like a skeleton wrapped in skin colored saran-wrap, the plastic barely holding on. You could almost see the skin on hi chest move from his heartbeats. He had changed.

We kept talking until late, he offered me the bed if i didn't feel comfortable driving that late in that neighborhood. I told him that it was alright and that I should be going back home anyways, "I have to wake up early tomorrow to go somewhere." I didn't say the word "work" because I did not want to upset him or make him feel worse.

He's having a hard time as it is.

9 Crimes

Leave me out with the waste
This is not what I'd do
It's the wrong kind of place
To be thinking of you
It's the wrong time
For somebody new
It's a small crime
And I've got no excuse

Is that alright with you?
Give my gun away when it's loaded
Is that alright with you?
If you don't shoot it how am I supposed to hold it
Is that alright with you?
Give my gun away when it's loaded
Is that alright
Is that alright with you?

Leave me out with the waste
This is not what I'd do
It's the wrong kind of place
To be cheating on you
It's the wrong time
but she's pulling me through
It's a small crime
And I've got no excuse

Is that alright with you?
Give my gun away when it's loaded
Is that alright with you?
If you don't shoot it how am I supposed to hold it
Is that alright with you?
Give my gun away when it's loaded
Is that alright
Is that alright with you?

Is that alright?
Is that alright?
Is that alright with you?
Is that alright?
Is that alright?
Is that alright with you?

No...