"Don't hold still for a minute. The birds of spring, mother, cast a short shadow. And like the shadows skim on and pass over the 59th Street Bridge in an instant and are gone. Gone, for crissakes, gone gone. They are on the way to That Great Street where a man once danced with his very own life... In the gloaming. To get lost in the potato peelinged coffee grounded cat peed rusty screened alleys of southside westside eastsideamerica. Seen by few mourned by none...