Mark was exactly where he thought he would be on a Saturday night, right back in the alley drunk with the wine bottle still in his hand, he wasn’t sure how he got here; homeless, penniless and afraid of commitment, all those years people told him he would never amount to anything and they were right he supposed, he was once a man of great literature, a man that could once be respected, in the society where the best thing you can do is be somewhat lie spitting politician or inherently rich guy, poetry just was not covering the bills; of course he tried and tried and tried but he was a writer at heart, so he took the Edgar Alan Poe way, he picked up drinking and wrote as much as possible, he thought it better to be in these rags drunk then in some high horse office doing nothing but hating himself, but yet he just wonders what would have happened if he had done something else, growing up he had the chance to of course and he certainly could have tried harder, but to what end would that of brought him, he merely wanted that which every great philosopher demanded, and that was full understanding of the insane universe of mixed brain signals and made up images of political power and wealth from paper and metal, so maybe being in the alley drunk was what was going to bring him closer to that, maybe it wouldn’t, all he knew was for every thought he thought he had to think another thought to understand the last, so was it really worth the thought, he really wondered if maybe all the thinking was what made it so rough, he knew that the world around him was at his conceiving and to be made by whatever random chemical reaction and thought process his body with his awareness following decided to give, that’s what was frustrating was the immortality of thought but the death of understanding it as time went on, all the great philosophers knew that they too would one day die but that their very philosophies may live on if they passed them on but in this day and age where everything is demanded to be concrete, open perception is ridiculed, he just couldn’t survive, so even the alcohol if it came to no purpose but to drive him mad, he guessed he was just another starving writer and philosopher destined to be drunk in the alley again.