Late winger light, the shadows grow longer, and the dust and the city grit are in the air. It is still cold, but shoots of the first hardy perennials of spring are shooting up. This is the witching hour. This is when life springs eternal. The sap flows, weight and coats are shed, and crazy peple get – crazier.
The greatest suicide rates are in April. The lonely cardboard flotsam feel the world renewing itself, yet they are not.
His work was over, why wait? Some inventor was said to write on his suicide note.
But we scenery people, we extras of real life, can and will overcome, we will inherit the earth. Out of the shadows come the glue that holds society together, the ones who quietly go about their business. It is our turn and our time.