There is much crying in the land of Lincoln. Yelling and screaming in the hometown of Jane Addams, Carl Sandburg, and Saul Alinsky. Poets and politicians of Chicago throughout the years have made this town a refuge for thinkers, artists, intellectuals, scholars, people far smarter, and harder working than I’ll ever be, are the makeup of this metropolis, this Midwest town, this second city. Yet, none of them come close to the working man, the poor, the Southside drug dealers, and Northside whores. It is a city divided in two. What am I saying? It’s a country divided in two.

And here I sit in luxury, having not earned my place. I have not worked hard. I’ve hardly worked. Nothing accomplished in this life. I wonder why I write. No one will ever read it. Hear what I have to say. I am simply scribbling. There is no course of action.

How does one make money and still have dignity? Become a lawyer? A liar? A thief. A businessman who robs and steals from those less fortunate? A minister who prays on the hope and faith of the blind? Who knows.

I knew one thing to be true; I was suffering. I needed a way to make some dough. Relying on Cleo was too easy, too demeaning. I was a little boy getting an allowance. Be careful what you wish for, the saying goes. For you will surely get it.