You went to the ALCS. You were not lost because you were not sought.
Inside your rented hovel, located on Tuberculosis Avenue, there is room to die but not room to live. It is but half the size of a better man’s wardrobe, were such a better man not to have a wardrobe at all.
The concourses, the seats, the diamond — they are not empty because the game is over or because the game has not yet begun. They are empty because you are not fit company.
The subways of a mighty city are empty for no other reason than your choice to drink yourself lonesome.
The Detroit “People Mover” is there to spare the indigent defeated from the cold or from street beatings. Tonight, though, not even rust-belt hobos care to hear your stories. The picture is halved because even your shit camera is tired of your plaints.
In order to die, one need not ever live.