Forevermore we shall wander the halls and be seen looking out of the upper-story windows of houses; there is a slow pace to our lives and we sit and slowly mourn our losses. We are the living dead with broken dreams and broken hearts who are seen here and there in Denver; sometimes we are seen taking walks alone in parks; sometimes we are seen at bus stops, not waiting for buses but smoking or resting on our walks. There are some in this city who work and buy and raise families and go out with friends on weekend nights; but for every fifty of those there is a bachelor or spinster who does not work and merely wanders halls all day, wanders parks all day, sits at the window all day, sits and lets life pass by. We are the powerless ones; we are the poor ones; we are the ones forever locked outside the doors, while much drinking and joy goes on inside; we are the ones who are not caught up in the illusions of the city and the dreams of the city; for we stand outside, and do not work and work, buy and buy; and so life is so much agony for us. Denver is the perfect place for us to come and contemplate our losses for the rest of our slow lives; and we wish only for the days and nights to pass by more quickly, for the sun to rise when it is dark, for the sun to set when it is light.