He was a frumpy man, skinny like cracks, yet careless like the Quacks hollering down on the street. It hadn't been long since the maiden voyage, the very same that brought him to the small cell of a unapologetically tiny pantry in Manhattan. Clothes, cans, and cigarettes--the only thing decorating the painted brick walls and splintered knockoff hardwood. The landlord, a bustly woman of foreign time and tongue, warned him on his first day, "The Roaches are back." To him, this man, our hero, could only see the goodness in company.

It was winter inside, but he liked it that way. If only flurries would precipitate from the ceiling clouds, then he'd be complete. The city's warmth in a miserable summer did all it could to invade through the windows. He shielded up aluminum foil to gag the screaming sunshine, and dwelled in the darkness.

Moving from home, on a whim, or a dare he would later exaggerate. He wanted to go out, to taste Manhattan's skin, but he couldn't bring himself to escape. In the stillness space, he scribbles his morning musings in his journal. Big black strokes devour erroneous messages, and after a quick scan, he tosses the booklet. 2 days, it's been. 2 days in New York City, and he's already losing his mind, he suspects.

Johnny Webb (that's him) came from a small upbringing, from an even smaller farmtown. Being the only boy in a home ruled by a stern, Victorian mother (Her name was actually Victoria, but after realizing the bougie air of introduction in such farmy confines, she changed it to a more suiting Vicky--and for a short, drug-induced period in the 80s, Tori). Johnny's father had disappeared when he was but six. It's the earliest memory of his childhood, which was far more wrist-cutter than typical child memories like petting a balding doggie's back (which was mine). He liked to imagine his father's funeral, and more so an actual reason for abandonment.