You limped past the rum shop on your way to the public telephone. The light was fading as we drank intense as usual to feel larger than reality. You understood the ritual. We smiled mostly out of fear. You whispered hoarsely. 'Race you home'�

Did I hear Ryan stifling laughter? I remember how we cursed at life's brutality. We couldn't help but reminisce about your hardcore days chasing demons. I took a last swig and disappeared into the darkness. Home had beckoned a sad warrior.

I opened the music for peace of mind. The songs fell flat as your whisper drifted back haunting like strung out ghosts. Was it a death rattle or a warning to quit those broken streets? I had encountered only madness when we wandered from ghetto street to ghetto alley through ghetto ravine track to ghetto dead ends. Always the same hunger of lupine greed, a persistent lascivious glare that shrieked at me to flee. Sometimes I fell down drunken confronting my own demons.

The music is my talisman. In its absence, life burns my voice. Sometimes the same music beats a death rhythm. Ryan must have heard the beast music in your whisper. Your broken solitary music salting his rum? Am I listening? Maybe it is way past the hour of redemption.

Ryan raced you home blowing a fog of aftershock. We praised your spirit of fairness when Ryan crossed the finish line first. Surely he must have seen me pulling you back at the very last second. For one more race I dared you to stay.

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