I have crossed over to North Clark via Wacker Drive. My mind was still twitching from thoughts on Halstead about Mary and the second coming of me. In this second coming, am I here to spread love, punishment,  judgment upon these people of whom were created from good yet now have fallen into the depths of sin? What is my purpose?

And then it dawns on me, don’t you know. I am not Christ at all. I am merely a man of this world who falls short of the mark every time. And Mary the secretary is adding to that fall. The thoughts of saving her and my fellow slaves are foremost in my mind. Yet it dawns on me. She does not want to be saved. Nor do those who line up with me each morning for their crumbs. No. We are all happy with mediocrity. Perhaps below mediocrity. Is this what I really am? A mediocre man? A peasant who is manic one month and sad for months to come?

Truth is, there is no Mary. There are no peasants. There is no me. We are all just figures in God’s great dream. Or is it his nightmare. An experiment gone awry.

This will entangle my thoughts for weeks to come. I am no savior of the people. I am only a derelict who has given up. Albeit a crazy derelict, a derelict none the less.

Goodbye, sweet Mary. Goodbye, you Irish pricks.  So long to Charlie and his constant clap. Fairwell to all. 

It’s back to the bridge over the Chicago River. Looking down at the green water. Wanting to become part of the water, leaving my soul behind. But I don’t have the guts to follow through. I must keep on.