He's been out of work for months, but still dresses for the office and kisses his wife goodbye, and heads for his park bench. Every morning briefcase in hand, he just can't seem to tell her, inside he's no longer a man. His eyes half open, not tired, but not fully awake, he's just wants an end to all this heartache. He writes it all down, about everything and nothing, talks about his kids, and how he wants to leave 'em something. He's got a thing for pain, blocks it from his heart, and to keep him sane I put it in my art. That eases his mind, but never lasts to long, keeps saying to himself "I gotta' be strong" "I gotta' be strong". He just can't seem to put it all together, try's to think how it could have been better.. His family and life no longer compels him, he mutters to himself "You gotta' still swim". "Stay above water" , he prays for the will to win. He's wants to be a good father, but he knows that he's not one, and dreams of eating a barrel-of-death by shotgun... I met him this summer in the commons. I'd see him throughout the day, pouring over the newspaper in hopes of finding someone - somewhere that wants him - convinced that nobody does. We'd talk. Sometimes over coffee, sometime over something stronger. There were days that I was excited not to see him on the bench. But as time passes I worry now if I don't see him. Worried that I will someday read-about-him... I purposely DID NOT make this morbid. No real use of red, though that is my favorite color. I am trying to continue to hold out hope in a collapsing world. If for no other reason than - tomorrow. ~yO