He dived in Cascade Street to rush out onto the horror of the memory. Now, pull up your sleeves and make it shape the way it makes you feel. His typewriter says 'Contented'. He remembers flying high on his back on wine and tears back when he thought people could be trusted blindly. How could he erase himself? That guilt curled up deep down in his bleeding stomach -- an imaginary old bum dying with a puddle of puke covering his soul. How he wished he could forget things -- tied up on an electric chair. 'A yellow light broke into the kitchen and I woke up in the hospital.' It was quiet and dreadful. He ran out and got lost in the streets clutching and stumbling, despair all over his face. He became the 'Stolen Child' leaving no happy hearts behind him.