Some punk with a shotgun killed young Danny Bailey. 16 federal agents positioned and ready outside Chicago’s Biograph movie theater. An hour and 33 minutes of “Manhattan Melodrama”, young Danny Bailey walked out to his death. Damn you Lady In Red. American Gangster or Hero? Hero or Imagination?

Their eyes in sync. In harmony. In rhythm. They went together so beautifully. A match made in heaven. Like yin and yang. For one watched over the other from atop. For the other radiated so powerfully, the gods from Saturn and Icarus could feel and see this oh so radiating soul from the grounds of the Earth. Charismatic. Goofy. Generous. Intellectual. Philosophical. Simple. Gentle. Groovy. Zealous. To every event, journey, experience, and memory, It was there. It’s always there. For there is no life without It. As It is the true meaning of yin and yang. For It is the only thing that life truly guarantees. But why do we choose to view It as dark or sad or evil? Why must we be so afraid of it? It is only there to love and cherish. It is only there to take your hand in marriage, as it vowed. Until Death do us part. I. I. I. I. Get comfortable with it. Get real comfortable with it. For after all, we did take each other’s hand with vows and promises to always protect one another. For I empowered you. For I am the greatest motivator one could ask for. For I reframed your fear of me as a fear of not living. The worst thing is not dying, but it is never having lived. You must understand that the future is happening regardless. So, again. Death, do you take Life to be your soulmate? Life, do you take Death to be your soulmate? Do you promise to recognize one another as equals, and support one another in your goals and wishes for the future? For one last time, they took a look at each other before the clock stroke at 4:24PM. It was the last time. For, I, am death. For, I, was death. For, I, was above all, to thine own self be true of facing souls.

8 was his life. 8 was regarded as his luckiest number. 8 was also regarded as the luckiest number in Chinese culture. To fortune. To prosperity, success and high social status. For he embraced this number everywhere in life. His passwords. His license plates. His salary. His life. It was always 八八八 (Bā Bā Bā). For every light to a cigarette, he prevailed. For the mind is stronger than the body. For your body is not you. Your body is not who you are. Strike of a match. Strike of a match. He striked on and on and on, so desperately seeking a glow. For he was a creature of habit and routine. For till March 11, 2014, he no longer prevailed. The body conquered the mind. Eating away. Signs of early decompositional changes. For the light at the end of the cigarette was his light. For I had battled to be his light but the faint glimmer of the burning nicotine had beat me. She gave him exactly what he wanted. 200 hits of nicotine to the brain each day. Consistent and reliable. An easy light that shined 70mm from his mouth. Pale, plump, swollen. 2555 days went by watching the carried blood to the heart muscle narrow by blocked clots. Watching death. Watching 8 burn at the end of the light. Vanishing into thin air. For life circled like a Lucky 8.

He looked like death had taken over his body. Pale, plump, swollen. It was as if the circulation of the blood had been cut off. Discoloration. Purpleation (if even a word). Blotches of purple across the arms. Yellow stains on his finger nails from smoking. For cigarettes only but enriched his life. As all one could see. Keep it together. You must stay strong for he will collapse. Your strength will keep him up. Eye contact was challenging as she saw only but darkness, sadness, guilt, shame, and disappointment. So badly she wanted to break down in tears. Keep it together. You are the light. You are his light. You could hear it in his voice. You could see it in his eyes. You could feel it in his hug. You could see it in his walk. You could see it in his swollen limping body. You could….see. What is worse? Watching death upon a loved one or watching death knowing with no control? As all one could see. Make a wish. Blow out your candles. A wish to do more. A wish to know the answers. A wish to get in that head of the “Hommie-Ji”. She begged, wished, and weeped. A plea for help. Desperately asking what to do. For the death answered.

Yankees fan huh? Nope, I just like the color of the hat. You can’t go wrong with navy blue. Just one commonality and a connection is made. The power of human connection. You know that comforting feeling when we are physically embraced - feeling heard, emotionally understood and supported by another human being. There is this sense of warmth, security, and satisfaction. We all thirst it, even if you’d like to try and deny. But see, what one must grasp is that most of us are in love with the idea of being in love. What is real and what is not real? Are you rising or falling in love? We chase this illusive feeling, feeling the spark of the new and intensity of the passion and then as soon it dwindles we are disappointed, and we set off trying to find the feeling. A sense of excitement. Newness. Fresh. Bare but not so rare. Loving wholly, arms and heart wide open. Tick tock tick tock. We are left chasing that feeling or forever comparing all other feelings to that experience. You see, for all life is an act of faith and an act of gamble. The moment you take a journey, what an act of faith. In madness lies sanity. Leap, and the net will appear. Falling, falling, falling. Was it all it a dream Brooklyn Boy?