To see only his eyes, black and narrow, without any shine, any reflection, from outside, nor within, you wouldn’t know if he were alive, or waxen. We were high on mescaline, and I watched Leo change from nothing, to something, a dark King, and then back to nothing, but colored blood-red this time. At least that was what I thought I’d seen. His brother was there with us as well, in the second floor square-building apartment, one of the invisible people, and I still can’t remember his face; I couldn’t remember it if I was staring right at it. His mother lived there too, some nights, but I’d never seen her, to forget. I thought on it later, stumbling home amid and between the owl-screech, puddle-ripple street-people. Someone had named him, ‘Leonard’. Someone had held him, daydreamed in yellow sunbeams of all the possibility he held, a whispered hope to escape the aching-gray suffocation of this place, and then someone– had forgotten their promise.